


Lead Me Home

by Jackdaws45



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Found Family, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Presumed Dead, Protective Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-07-05 08:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 88,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaws45/pseuds/Jackdaws45
Summary: After Clint goes missing while investigating AIM, Phil spends over a year searching against all odds of him still being alive. It isn’t until he’s just about to give up that Phil will get the first clue to finding the man, but Clint may be gone forever.





	1. Author's note and Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this idea came from but it wouldn’t leave me alone. Of course I thought initially this would only be a 20-30K word fic, but these guys just would not get it together until 83K words later… This is a completed work, and I plan to post a new chapter every 3-5 days, possibly sooner if people seem to be enjoying it as measured by kudos and comments! (Wink wink, nudge nudge.)
> 
> This is set a few years before the Avengers, and is mostly compliant with the MCU except for pairings. For now Jasper gets to be a good guy, though whether he’s just playing the long game or the whole Hydra thing never happened is up to each of you to decide (and has no bearing on this fic anyway!)
> 
> Pairings include Clint/Coulson and Clint/Laura, but end game will be Clint/Coulson. While not everyone will get a fairy tale ending be assured no one winds up devastated at the end, and there is no character bashing – I love all of these characters and tried to treat them all with as much respect as this situation allows. That being said it’s a rough road especially for Phil, so be prepared!
> 
> Minor relationships include Maria Hill/Jasper Sitwell. 
> 
> Huge THANK YOU to Hades Puppy and Teeelsie! This story is so much better because of your assistance and careful read-through. Much thanks to both of you!
> 
> And thank you, readers, for stopping by and giving this fic a chance. I really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> -JD

Prologue:

Phil’s bent over a familiar file, edges worn and jacket tattered. A single lamp lights the space as he pores over a year's worth of notes and tips and dead ends. Jasper pauses to watch for a moment, then he knocks on the frame of Phil’s open office door; the sound echoes in the quiet corridor of SHIELD headquarters on a Friday night.

“Going to Hugh’s, you coming?”

When Phil looks up and blinks him into focus, Jasper gives a half smile. “I told Maria I’d get you to come – don’t wanna make me look bad on her birthday, do you?”

He can see the refusal on Phil’s face, watches his mouth tensing to say the words, so he beats him to it. “It’s been a year, Phil. I’m not saying you should give up, I’m just saying your friends miss you and it’s a Friday night. Come, have a drink with us. You won’t lose any ground by rejoining the world for an hour.”

The tenseness extends from Phil’s face to his shoulders and back, anger growing in his eyes and Jasper prepares for the verbal backlash. But it doesn’t come – whatever Phil had been about to say leaves him in a gust of breath and he collapses back in his chair. Jasper’s chest hurts to see his friend like this, looking older than his years, suit as impeccable as ever but today’s growth studding his chin and deep shadows under his eyes.

Glancing up at Jasper seems to strengthen him again and Phil gives a rueful grin as he jokes, “There better not be Karaoke this year.”

“Nick promised. Which means we have about an hour before the singing starts. One drink, give Maria that gift I know is sitting in your top drawer, and you’ll still be home in time for the late-night reruns of Dog Cops.” Phil’s smile as he reaches into said drawer to withdraw a carefully wrapped box is a bit more genuine.

“As if we don’t have the box set anyway…” When Phil stands his left hand moves to close the file and Jasper isn’t sure which makes his throat tighten more - the light that catches on the ring encircling Phil’s finger, or the photo of a blond-haired man looking up from that file, M.I.A. in bold red letters across the top. Thankfully Phil doesn’t seem to notice as he goes on, “Besides, I thought Maria was a fan?”

Jasper swallows the lump in his throat, just barely managing to clear the grief from his face before Phil looks up at the uncharacteristic pause. “Apparently she’s moved on to Supernanny. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Embrace the chaos, you’ll enjoy it more.”

“Duly noted.” He steps back out into the hall as Phil gathers his things, tucking the file into his briefcase and locking his computer and desk. “You going to be out for the weekend?” The chances are low given that Phil has taken to spending hours every weekend he should be at home in the office instead, looking for clues and trying to track down anyone who may have more information. They start down the deserted hallway.

“I’ll put in a few hours tomorrow,” is the carefully worded response and Jasper reads between the lines: Phil will be here early in the morning having gotten little to no quality sleep, inhaling coffee from the shop a block away and staying until past dark. But at least for now they are exiting the building into the warm midsummer air. Phil is relaxed next to him and they make small talk as they walk, avoiding any mention of topics that may relate to the missing archer. It probably shouldn’t feel so much like a victory.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Chapter 1.

_One year earlier_

 

The first thing he’s aware of is a pain in his head, sharp and stabbing just above his right ear. With a groan he lifts his right hand up, trying to reach the spot only to feel a restriction around his wrist. After a few experimental though ineffective tugs, several things become apparent all at once: he’s in a bed with restraints on his wrists and ankles, the light is far too bright in the room when his eyes snap open, and this looks like a hospital room except for how it really isn’t. He isn’t sure how he can be so certain about that, but it’s an instinct he is going to trust. Like the instinct that if he twists his hand just so, and pushes instead of pulls... the tight ring around his left wrist loosens, and he’s able to slip his hand out.

 

The room starts to spin when he sits up after releasing his other wrist, the sterile white swirling around him and his head pounds in time with his rapid heart rate. Right ankle, then left.

 

He’s barefoot and dressed in grey sweatpants with a matching t-shirt. There’s red on the shirt at his waist and he realizes that he’s dislodged an IV from his hand. The blood leaking from the puncture wound makes him queasy so he covers the vein with his other hand, applying pressure to stop the flow as he looks around.

 

The walls are all white; nothing to break the monochrome except the metal door across from him and a vent cover in the ceiling above the bed. No window, no TV, no visitors’ chair, not even a monitor for the vitals the wires taped to his chest are surely recording. Instinct kicks in again and he rips the wires from his body, some taking the sticky leads with them; he ignores the burn as they pull away from his skin.

 

He’s in a normal bed, not the typical hospital issue with railings on both sides. There is a tray of dressing supplies on the bedside table, just gauze and a pair of flimsy scissors and some tape.

 

He’s standing with the scissors in his hand before he knows it, open with one blade tucked into his palm and the other extended outward as he reaches up over his head. There are four screws around the outside of the vent, and he removes three of them before pulling down hard on the cover. It bends as expected, hanging down from the remaining screw. The opening is barely big enough to fit a small child, and the duct work beyond won’t accommodate a human of any size.

 

He scrambles under the bed, pulling his knees in because he never had any intention of going that way. His thoughts are disjointed and racing, thundering around without direction and yet he feels calm, poised, waiting. Already his breathing is shallow and slow, not making a sound as it passes in and out of his body, bent and cramped as it is. The blade of the scissors digs into his palm as he waits just a few seconds more.

 

When the door opens there are two pairs of booted feet and another pair of those chunky clogs health professionals seem to prefer. He’s guessing two guards and a doctor, then. All three stop suddenly before racing forward around both sides of the bed, and he can just picture them craning their necks back to peer into the black hole above the bed. He moves.

 

His foot connects with the shin of the booted man next to the nurse, buckling the limb but he’s already shooting out from under the bed to tackle the remaining guard on the other side. The man falls, his head hits the hard floor with a sickening crack, then goes still.

 

Before he can even register that he may have just killed a man, he’s standing with the guard’s gun in hand and firing at the first guard, who is still struggling to his feet. He’s surprisingly unsurprised to see metal prongs sink into the guards neck rather than a bullet, but it works just as well and the man drops to the floor twitching but unconscious.

 

The doctor stares at him in shock, arms half raised as if to ward off an attack.

 

“Where am I? What is this place?” The words barely pass his dry throat, even when he repeats himself. The doctor doesn’t move beyond his nearly full-body tremors, but there is a sudden bitter smell in the room and a growing stain spreading over the man’s pants.

 

He wants answers but something pulls at him, something saying to move before it’s too late. Keeping an eye on the doctor he bends to the body at his feet, taking off the guards boots. They are a little big on him but better than being barefoot. Next he pulls the radio and ear piece from the man, noting with disconnected relief that the guard’s chest is rising and falling as he continues to breathe. Once in his ear the radio chatter’s fairly benign, meaning his escape attempt has not yet been noticed but he doubts that will last long. There’s a pair of handcuffs he liberates from the guard as well; he uses them to secure the third man to the bed with his hands behind his back, and adds a gag fashioned from a torn off length of fabric from the sheets.

 

There’s no sounds from the hall and he doesn’t see anyone when he peeks out the door. With the radio tucked into the pocket of the sweat pants, the scissors in one hand and the metal tray from the dressing supplies in the other, he creeps down the hallway.

 

The first room he comes to seems to be some kind of laboratory including what looks like an operating table of sorts. He shudders as he passes the gleaming metal table and its thick leather straps, deliberately ignoring the sudden pounding of his heart in his chest.

 

He grabs a hoodie from the back of a chair to cover the blood on his t-shirt, noticing a small logo over the chest when he zips it up – AIM. He feels like it’s important but for now it means nothing to him, so he moves on.

 

Without consciously knowing that he’s searching, he finds what he’s looking for by the door – the emergency fire escape routes. The radio remains silent as he follows the thick red line he’d memorized from the map, down hallways and up a flight of stairs. Twice he avoids pairs of security before his luck runs out and he rounds a corner to come face to face with two more guards carrying real firearms this time.

 

After everything that has happened already, he probably shouldn’t be surprised that the adrenaline rushing through him isn’t fear but rather anticipation of the fight he knows is coming, knows he will win.

 

A sharp metallic ringing sounds as the tray connects with the first guard’s head, which he follows up with a knee to the groin. He smacks away the rising gun of the second guard before kicking out at his ankle; the joint gives easily. While the man stumbles he links his hands together and brings them down hard on the back of the first guard. There’s a grunt as he falls face first to the floor and doesn’t move again.

 

The other guard has managed to stumble towards the wall and is supporting himself against it with only one foot on the ground. He’s dropped his gun but is raising something which could be much more dangerous - the radio nearing his lips. Instinct drives him forward and he slams the guard’s hand into the wall, shattering the radio and the fragile bones of the man’s wrist in one go. The guard’s scream is short lived as an elbow drives into his jaw and his head bounces off the concrete wall. He slumps with a groan, sliding down to land in a heap.

 

After leaving the two guards crumpled on the ground and barely conscious it’s only another hundred yards or so until he finds the stairway leading outside. He’s half a mile into the woods surrounding the compound before the alarm is raised and the radio in his ear sparks to life with shouting and orders and chaos. Adrenaline surges again but he pauses to take stock of the situation.

 

It’s warm out despite the sun setting to his left, and the mix of coniferous and leafy trees suggests a more northern climate; the thinness of the air suggests a few thousand feet above sea level. Given that the chatter on the radio had been in English, he presumes he is somewhere is the United States or Canada; Midwestern if he had to guess.

 

And it is a guess. He doesn’t understand how he knows these things, how to escape from the facility or disarm the guards. With a sharp intake of breath he stands up straight, fear finally sinking deep into his chest.

 

He has no name, doesn’t know who he is or where he is or why he’s here. Besides the logo on his chest he has no idea who held him, and he’s beginning to wonder if they hadn’t been right to have him locked up. He’s dangerous, he knows that as clearly as he knows that south will take him downhill. He can’t say how, he has no real evidence, just an instinct that he’s beginning to trust. Pulling the hood up over his head he puts the sun to his right and starts walking.

 

***

 

It’s been three weeks and several hundreds of miles since his escape. He managed to cross into Wyoming a couple days ago by a mix of hiking, hitchhiking, and a couple borrowed cars. He has a small bag of clothes collected from various drying lines and finally managed to find a decent pair of boots. There’s a few hundred dollars in his pocket from odd jobs and more than a few bar room games - turns out he’s pretty good at darts and pool.

 

The weather is just starting to turn cool as he rolls into another small town along a narrow two lane highway. There’s a short stretch of stores along the main street – a grocer, a hardware store, a barber, a small inn, and a diner in the middle, clustered around a single stop light. All the vehicles are a good few years old, mostly pickup trucks and some rusted cars. There’s even a saddled horse munching at a feed bag outside of the bank.

 

After three weeks sleeping rough and constantly moving, he’s hoping to be able to settle down for a little while, maybe get a real job and make some money. This seems as good a place as any; as off the grid as he can get short of a shack in the woods. Looking around he tries to decide what to do first. He spotted a good place a mile out of town to spend the night, but the inn is tempting – a shower sounds like heaven compared to the cold baths out of whatever creek’s he’s been able to find. He’s managed to wash up in a couple rest stop bathrooms as well, but there are only so many places one can reach while still mostly clothed.

 

The ancient but intricately fashioned iron hands of a clock in front of the bank says it’s late afternoon, which combined with a growl from his stomach makes him decide food is a good place to start.

 

He ambles up the main street opposite the diner for a ways, keeping a close eye on the people around him and pretending to read advertisements posted on lampposts and store windows. Most people are going about their business without paying him much mind, others give a polite smile while trying to decide if he is going to cause trouble. He smiles back and tries to make his shoulders smaller, less imposing – no point looking like a bouncer if he wants to stay here.

 

He slides into a small, narrow shop which turns out to be a secondhand bookstore and video rental. While pretending to peruse the action/adventure selection, he keeps an eye out the big bay window onto the street. No one is even looking in the direction of the store and there’s no evidence of someone following him.

 

“Can I help you, son?”

 

He was so focused on outside he hadn’t noticed the man appearing at his elbow. Turning to face him he notes the graying hair and thick glasses, suspicious eyes staring back at him from over a salt and peppered moustache.

 

“Just looking at the selection, sir.” He gives a wide smile, but the man just glares with his hands on his hips, not even taking a step back. “Well, think I’ve seen most of these. I’ll be going.” As he turns to leave he can feel the shopkeepers eyes on him, following him out the door and out of sight.

 

As convinced as he can be that no one is tailing him, he heads to the diner. It’s charming in its own way, with red-vinyl booths and vinyl-covered stools at the counter. There are a few square tables between the counter and the booths, and while it is all old and worn it’s also well cared for and clean.

 

Taking a seat in a far booth with his back to a wall he has good sight out the door and into the kitchen over the counter. As he tucks his bag in at his side he looks over the few occupied tables but nothing stands out as alarming. There are two kids at the counter; a dark-haired boy and likely his younger sister bent over books with empty plates at their elbows and schoolbags at their feet.

 

A harried waitress comes around the counter with two plates covered in gravy, delivering them to an elderly couple by the door. She’s already bustling away as they thank her, returning to the kitchen where she stirs a pot, puts a bun on the grill to warm, pulls up a bin of fries, and flips a burger before covering it with a slice of cheese to melt. Leaving the food she returns to the dining room and grabs a pre-filled glass of water off the counter and a menu, both of which she plops down in front of him before she’s off, back to the kitchen without a word. 

 

Taken aback, he ignores the menu to watch as she frowns at the blackened bread on the grill, then takes a knife to scrape the worst of it off before using the pieces to plate up the burger. A pile of fries goes next to it and a piece of lettuce and onion. Setting it aside she removes a steaming pot from the stove and empties it into a strainer in the sink before removing what looks like a meatloaf from the oven. The door opens to admit a group of four as she brings the plate out from the kitchen, placing it in front of a slim man reading the paper.

 

“Sorry, Dave, no tomatoes.” She gives him a tired smile.

 

“Ah, Laura, what would I want with that rabbit food anyway,” the man calls after her.

 

He’s still watching as the boy from the counter takes menus over to the newcomers when the waitress, Laura, pops up next to him.

 

“What can I get you?” She looks even more tired up close, dark smudges under kind brown eyes and a tenseness in the lines of her forehead. Even without makeup and her hair pulled back in a limp ponytail she’s very pretty, then one eyebrow raises at his pause.

 

“Hamburger with macaroni salad, please,” he says after glancing quickly at the menu.

 

“We’re out of macaroni salad.” She’s already gathering the menu from his hands and she seems a bit defensive about it.

 

“Fries are fine.” He smiles, hoping to put her at ease but she’s already hurrying away.

Things go downhill from there. Even in such a small town there’s a dinner rush that’s starting to hit, and as the tables fill Laura falls further behind. The boy and his sister, who he hears others call Cooper and Lila, help hand out water and menus, clear the few tables that manage to empty, and bring out a few dishes but it’s clearly too much for one person and two kids. He’s forlornly watching as his burger overcooks untended on the grill when a table near the door stands up and leaves, not bothering to stay for the food they had ordered.

 

Drinking the last of his water, he makes a decision and stands, approaching the long counter just as Laura comes out of the kitchen. She stops short and looks at him with surprise and he hopes not fear. Just in case, he shoves his hands in his pockets and folds his shoulders in to make himself appear smaller; looks down and gives a tiny smile. It seems to help because she relaxes marginally and raises that eyebrow again in question.

 

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re down a cook. I’ve worked in a few kitchens,” he shrugs, not finishing the proposal. He can see her considering and he wonders how tired and desperate she really must be to consider the help of a complete stranger.

 

Then she sighs and shakes her head, “I can’t pay you.” She moves to walk past him.

 

“I didn’t ask you to.”

 

She stops but doesn’t turn back, and he can see her weighing the options in her mind. He’d like to think she’s seen something in him to make her trust him. More likely it’s the door opening to admit more customers and the loaded tables around them that has her nod back at him, “There’s an apron behind the door to the kitchen, Mr…?”

 

“James,” he sticks out his hand, “but most everyone calls me Jimmy,” he lies. But he does have one of those mechanic shirts in his bag with a patch that reads James, and it fits as well as any other name he has been able to come up with. He heads back to his booth to get his bag before going behind the counter to the kitchen, grabbing another glass of water on the way.

 

Glancing around he lifts the apron from its hook behind the door – he really doesn’t have enough clothes that he can afford to stain these. The set up is actually better than he could have expected, with a flat top griddle, a couple of fryers, and a full 6 burners to the stove. There’s a big double fridge, one side with frozen foods and the other more empty than he would have thought.

 

He’s just finished washing his hands when Laura returns and rushes through an explanation of where things are, pulling out supplies and floating around the stove and oven stirring pots and turning sandwiches and cutting from a turkey breast on a cutting board. She finishes and finally turns to look at him, plates in hand and her breath leaves her.

 

“Okay? Is this okay?” She’s biting at her lip and seems suddenly overcome with uncertainty, and he wonders how long she’s been trying to do this alone to be so unsure about letting someone help her.

 

With a cocky grin he turns to the stove, picks up the spatula and sends it spinning in the air, the handle landing perfectly in his waiting hand. “Two cheeseburgers, a meatloaf, and all the fixin’s coming right up.”

 

The next few hours pass in a rush of plates and dirty dishes and working around shortages. Cooper occasionally brings him orders or takes out plates, until both he and his sister are sent home with a neighbor.

 

He soon realizes that either the menu was much smaller than he realized, or the people here are used to the shortages and order the same things routinely. As they work he thinks it may be more of the second – no one seems to be upset by the long waits, there are no fights that he can see from the kitchen, and no one sends the food back.

 

It’s past eight before the last plate leaves and he switches off the ovens and griddle, washing it down before turning to the massive pile of dishes waiting by the sinks. He’s scraping plates into a garbage bin when the door opens to admit Laura. She looks almost dead on her feet, her hair falling from the ponytail to frame her face.

 

“You can leave those, I’ll take care of it.” Her words are belied by the way she’s leaning against the wall, letting it take half her weight. He won’t insult her by telling her to leave it to him, so he compromises – he rinses the dishes so she can load the dishwasher while he finishes the pots and pans in the sink. She’s putting the last saran wrapped container in the fridge as he hangs up the apron and grabs his bag. They’ve worked comfortably and he doesn’t want to ruin it - or make her feel badly about not being able to pay him - so he says “Thanks,” and he pushes his way out the door.

 

***

 

It’s dark outside and cool, autumn making its imminent arrival felt as he shrugs into a light jacket and turns towards the inn he had seen earlier. Like the diner it has seen better days but remains well cared for, clean, and there’s a room for him. It’s $60 a night according to the sign, but the elderly woman manning the front desk informs him it goes down to $45 if he can pay in cash. Seems fair for a bed and a hot shower and apparently breakfast, so he hands over the bills and she hands him a key. She stands to show him the way, but he stops her and just asks her for directions to his room to save her the stairs.

 

The steps are reassuringly squeaky, and his room is only two away from the landing – he’ll be able to hear anyone who comes up or down the stairs, which may be a bitch on sleep but he still doesn’t ever really feel safe. He walks the hall and peers out the window at the end which overlooks the roof of the hardware store next door. There are locks on the pane and it looks like it hasn’t been opened in years – if someone tries to come in this way they’ll make quite a racket.

 

He returns to room 3 and locks the door as soon as he’s inside. It’s not a large room, but there’s space to walk around all sides of the full bed, and a small attached bath with the promised shower. There’s a TV across the room from the bed, a small chest of drawers, a lamp shining from the bedside table with the single drawer containing a Bible. There’s even a small desk and chair pushed against the wall between the windows, through which he can see a backyard with a few lawn chairs and a fire pit and grill, all surrounded by a wooden fence.

 

He takes the chair and wedges it beneath the doorknob. Despite being long awaited, he’s having some anxiety about finally undressing fully for a shower. First the boots and socks, followed by shirt and pants. He still hasn’t invested in underwear and never could stomach taking them off a drying line. He feels more than vulnerable standing next to the bed without the knives he’s taken to carrying; one attached to his belt in the middle of his back and the other he tucks into his boot.

 

Like many of his compulsions he hasn’t yet been able to explain why he needs the weapons within arms reach to feel safe, or at least safer. He tucks the larger knife into the bedside drawer next to the Bible and the other he lays on the tank of the toilet before he starts the shower.

 

While waiting for the water to warm, he looks in the mirror hanging over the sink to find a face both familiar and foreign. When he had finally stopped after his escape and found a reflective surface, it was to find the hair shaved away from the right side of his head and a fresh wound visible there with a long row of black stitches; it's as long as his hand and curves down behind his ear. One of the first things he had “borrowed” was a razor to even out his hair, just shy of shaving himself bald. The second had been a hat, because he didn’t even know where to start trying to explain away that row of stitches.

 

It says something that the still healing scar is more familiar to him than the rest of his face. He recognizes it as his own, even if he can't remember the surgery that put it there, but the laugh lines and crow’s feet by his eyes, the crowns over his teeth, and the occasional small scars scattered over his head and neck are meaningless to him. The rest of his scars are more obvious in their source, but their origins remain elusive. There’s a round bullet wound, some thin jagged lines that might be knife wounds, and a broad shallow scar over his hip from what looks like a burn or road rash. The overlapping scars on his back and shoulders were clearly made intentionally, and at least that’s one memory he’s glad to have lost.

 

Over the last few weeks his hair has started to grow back, at least long enough to start covering the new scar so he can leave the hat off. He’s not sure why the wide bill blocking half his vision had set him so on edge, but that didn’t stop the relief of being freed from it.

 

It’s blissful to stand under the hot stream, even though the water pressure is terrible. With the small bar of soap provided, he scrubs three weeks of sweat and grime and the smell of the diner’s kitchen off his skin and out of his hair. Even after he’s washed all the important bits and the hard to reach spots he stays under the spray, focusing on breathing deep and stretching the aches out of his shoulders and back, his calves and feet.

 

Contrary to what he told Laura, he’s never worked in a kitchen before that he knows of, and he’s surprised at the toll it’s taken on his body. He can’t imagine how Laura must feel.

 

When the water turns cold he shuts it off and dries with a surprisingly large and fluffy towel, which he wraps around his waist to reenter the bedroom. He dresses in a cleanish pair of shorts and takes the dirty clothes from today and the worst of the ones in his bag back to the bathroom to wash in the sink, then hangs them to dry around the room.

 

By the time he prepares his bag should he need to make a quick get-away and is finally sliding under the covers it’s nearly midnight. He relaxes into the pillows with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling thinking it’s $45 well spent.

 

After a few minutes the tension begins to seep back in. Realizing this is his first time in a bed since the one he initially woke in, he shifts onto his side trying to find a sleeping position that seems natural. Then his belly, his other side, his back again. He’s able to settle for a few minutes each time but he knows deep down something is missing. The minutes go by and he ends up on his belly, face pressed into the pillow with a deep, gusting sigh.

 

Well, damn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Phil stands with his arms folded across his chest, jaw as tight as the solid line of the black sunglasses covering his eyes despite being inside. He can’t afford to loosen even a bit, because he knows he won’t be able to stop until he’s a shaking mess in the corner and that’s nothing the score of agents working around him needs to see. Not here, standing in the main lab of an AIM facility, a stainless-steel specimen table in front of him, complete with thick leather straps and a drain in the middle.

 

Four weeks. Four weeks of tracing Clint’s steps and taking down pockets of AIM and their supporters, of interrogations and bribes and deals, has finally led here. A research facility hidden in the thousands of square miles of the Midwest is the last known location of Agent Clint Barton, now MIA after starting a surveillance op when intelligence suggested AIM was working on new tech. Four weeks since Clint missed his check in, and the facility has been scrubbed clean of any trace him.

 

It’s unclear if AIM was already pulling out of this base or they’d been warned, but when SHIELD knocked down the doors it was to find the few low-level personnel left behind frantically packing and destroying what remained of the research. There’s no telling what SHIELD will piece together from the data they were able to save, but Phil already knows it won’t be enough.

 

“Agent Coulson?”

 

The agent at his side is standing a respectful distance away, file held in her hands. He knows he should acknowledge the woman, should separate his feelings about this situation and take the information she wants to give him. But he can’t, not yet, not when he knows what she will tell him. That Clint’s dead, tortured and experimented on and killed, nothing to find because he’s already gone.

 

He’s saved by Sitwell who slides between them and takes the papers from her, dismissing her with a thank you.

 

“Clear the room.” The command is clear and crisp, and Phil has it in him to appreciate Sitwell’s tact. The last of the agents leaves, the door closing behind them.

 

“He was here, Phil. He was brought here within days of his capture. The tech we have in custody can’t tell us exactly what was done to him, but we suspect it was related to the tech Hawkeye was investigating.”

 

If he wasn’t holding himself so tight he would flinch at that – the tech was reportedly a way of controlling people, not just taking away their will but replacing it entirely. He can’t imagine how Clint would react to that, to knowing what was being done to him.

 

“He also knows that the process was never completed because Clint escaped three weeks ago.”

 

Phil’s head turns so quickly his neck seizes but he ignores the pain to stare at Jasper, standing right beside him but also facing the table in front of them. That Jasper doesn’t meet his eyes is not reassuring.

 

“That’s the only thing he and the guards we have in custody can agree on. Half the guards say he escaped, that they stayed on his trail for a few days before they lost him. Two of the guards say they caught up to him east of here, that they slit his throat and dumped him into the Knife River.” Jasper removes his glasses, pinching at his nose. “The two were interviewed separately, and there’s enough consistency in their stories that I have to consider there may be truth to what they are saying.”

 

Phil turns back to the table, closing his eyes against the pain in his chest. Beside him Jasper puts his glasses back on. “The clean up is almost done here. We’ll load the evidence and set the charges. Take your time.”

 

He’s glad there are no empty condolences offered, no mention of the timer starting now. SHIELD SOP – with the confession from the guards, if there’s no further evidence gathered within one week, Clint will be presumed dead and the investigation stopped, with or without a body.

 

One week to find another clue, another tenuous link that Clint still lives. One week before he has to bury his husband, at least on paper. The sound of his fist connecting with the metal table in front of him is loud in the room, but it doesn’t stop him from doing it again and again. He chokes on a sob, one hand gripping the table edge to keep himself upright while the other covers his mouth to prevent the gasping breaths from escaping.

 

He only allows himself a minute more before he straightens. Sniffing deep a few times he shuts away Phil and settles Agent Coulson into place. Uncaring, unflappable; cold as the table before him.

 

He doesn’t allow himself to consider anything further as he stalks out of the facility, refuses to imagine Clint’s flight from these very halls. The sun’s bright when he exits but he can’t feel the warmth around the ice spreading from his chest. Walking the short distance to the last Quinjet, he stands on the ramp and turns back, taking in the innocuous looking building one last time.

 

“Bring it down.”

 

The charges fire in series, collapsing the ground-level building as the subterranean structure implodes below it until there’s nothing but a crater before them.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
> Short comments  
>  Long comments  
>  Questions  
>  “<3” as extra kudos  
>  Reader-reader interaction
> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
>  Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

 

He wakes with a start and looks around frantically, taking in the room. It’s quiet except for his own gasping breaths. Like so much else, he can’t remember the dream that woke him, or if he was dreaming at all. The fear is quickly replaced with irritation; the frustration of weeks of running and hiding and surviving without knowing who’s after him or why boiling up. Ripping back the sheets he stands and reaches up as far as he can, then drops to the floor. He doesn’t bother counting the number of pushups he does, just keeps going until the ache in his arms and shoulders stops him.

 

Lying on his back to catch his breath he finds his thoughts are finally clear, if still somewhat chaotic. Contemplating his situation and options he knows he isn’t safe here, but it seems no less safe than to keep moving endlessly. His thoughts first turn to Laura; he’s drawn to her in way he can’t describe. With some effort he dismisses the idea of returning to the diner – there’s not enough money to be made there. He needs to see if he can get a real job for at least a few weeks. There are almost certainly plenty of farms in the area that could use another strong back to help, especially with the pending harvest.

 

Shaking his head, he puts her out of his mind and resolves to find a job out of town, where he’s hopefully less likely to be found. Plans made, he takes another long shower and shaves. He carefully repacks his bag before sliding the strap across his chest and looking over the room one last time.

 

Like the night before, the air outside is cool but warming rapidly in the rising sun, bright and clear. Making a mental note to buy sunglasses he turns down the street. One of the advertisements he saw the day before promised a farmers’ market in the parking lot of the library from 6-9 am, so he heads there first. There aren’t a lot of people but there are a dozen or so stands, mostly pickups with the tailgates down and small tables bearing fruits and vegetables, fresh eggs, milk, and homemade baked goods.

 

He circles once just listening to the conversations. There are a few people he recognizes from the day before, but no one engages him directly beyond a polite good morning.

 

He narrows it down to a couple people he can inquire about a potential job, and he swears that’s his intention as he approaches one such stand. So why’s he walking away less than 5 minutes later with a dozen tomatoes heading for the main street? Well, he’ll blame that on unknown brain damage.

 

There’s a handful of patrons eating eggs and toast and drinking coffee when he enters the diner, taking the last seat at the counter against the far wall. He can see Laura in the kitchen appearing more relaxed than the day before as she flips eggs and butters toast. Lila is drawing what looks like flowers at the other end of the counter while her brother reads a comic book. It’s comfortable, almost peaceful, and he wonders if maybe the day before was just a fluke.

 

When Laura comes out of the kitchen she doesn’t see him at first, intent on delivering the plates in her hands. He watches her stop short when she turns around to see him, a little stutter to her step before she’s gliding gracefully between the tables again. She raises a finger to stop him from speaking when she brings him a cup of coffee, and he sets to doctoring it while she hurries away.

 

He stares down at the steaming surface as if it has personally betrayed him in some way. It seems incongruent that such an innocuous cup of hot black liquid should cause such turmoil in him. The first time he tried coffee he could have sworn his preference was one cream, one sugar; knew it instinctively. And yet when he’d taken the first sip his taste buds had revolted at the bitterness which sugar failed to cover. Since coffee comes standard with most American breakfasts he had tried multiple times to make it palatable; adding more sugar then less, more cream and even retried the one cream, one sugar to no success. The only time he’s managed to drink a full cup is when he adds nearly as much cream as coffee. With a sigh he stops staring and reaches for the milk on the counter in front of him.

 

There are a few people still waiting for their breakfast so he isn’t surprised Laura doesn’t return for a good while. He sips his coffee and keeps his eyes and ears open, but just like yesterday there’s nothing amiss. Unsurprising given such a small town, the patrons all seem to know Laura; mostly middle age and older men and women. When it’s nearly 8 Laura helps Lila put on her book-bag and gives the kids a hug, sending them out the door to school.

 

Once everyone has been served, coffee mugs refilled (not his, thank you), Laura returns. She braces her hands against the counter behind her and faces him across the distance, but seems to be having difficulty finding something to say.

 

He lets her struggle for just a moment before he lifts the bag of tomatoes up to the counter between them. “I noticed you were out of tomatoes.” He smiles but she doesn’t look at him.

 

“I had to fire my cook a few weeks ago after I found him supplementing his paycheck from the till. With the harvest coming the few people looking for work can make a lot more on the farms.” She pauses to glance at him, not his face but his arms and broad shoulders before looking away with a gentle scoff. “And where things stand now, I still can’t pay you.”

 

“Three squares a day seems fair, if you think it’s affordable.” There’s no one around them so he decides to add a little truth. “I came onto some hard luck requiring an operation a month or so ago, lost everything and been traveling since. Can’t work a farm right now, and knowing where the next meal’s coming from sounds pretty good.”

 

He doesn’t know what she sees in his face, but her eyes and mouth soften. “Well, Jimmy, it will get pretty slow between now and lunch, and I could use a hand with the prep.”

 

***

 

The work is hard but gratifying. They spend the morning prepping diner staples like meatloaf, turkey, gravy, potatoes, slicing tomatoes and making salads, even using some ground beef nearing the end of its shelf life to make a simple chili. As he suspected from the day before there isn’t much variety due to supply shortages and lack of time for one person to get through it all. Lunch is busier than breakfast but still easily split between the two of them. He fixes snacks and then dinner plates for Lila and Cooper when they arrive after school and start their homework. By the time the dinner rush hits they have a pretty good system going, and the hours fly by.

 

Clean up is much easier having been able to keep up with it throughout the day, and it’s just about nine when he gathers his things to go. Laura catches him at the door and hands him a handful of small bills. He tries to refuse but she’s adamant, says tips were better than usual and he should take his share. It doesn’t stop him from feeling a pang of guilt as he tucks the bills into his pocket and walks out of the diner.

 

She’s watching through the glass door she’s locked behind him, so he turns towards the inn a few doors down. Making sure she isn’t still watching him he bypasses the inn, turning the corner and circling around until he’s walking out of town. Staying off the roads he makes it back to the spot he had scouted the day before next to a fast-flowing creek, a hollow sheltered by the overhanging trees and large exposed roots.

 

He makes a bed from the thin blanket in his bag, careful to remove as many underlying sticks and rocks as possible. He builds a footprint of dry leaves and pine needles as a layer of insulation and cushion between the blanket and the ground. Sliding between the two halves of the blanket he tries to cover as much of himself as he can, then folds up a sweatshirt to use as a pillow and keeps a knife close to hand.

 

Listening to the forest around him he familiarizes himself with the night sounds, knowing from recent experience that any change will wake him immediately from sleep. Despite being more exposed than sleeping indoors it’s easier to discern differences in the environment, and he feels more secure as he drifts to sleep.

 

***

 

His days settle into a pattern. He wakes before dawn and relieves himself before washing in the creek with an increasingly tattered shirt. He stops at the farmers market to buy supplies with the previous days’ tips before heading to the diner. He shares his finds with Laura and the kids before the doors open, slipping a couple of cookies into their backpacks for them to find during lunch.

 

As they get used to working together the tasks are completed faster and so he starts trying new things: making a quick cornbread to go with the chili, finally making the macaroni salad he had asked for the first day, even making a couple simple pudding-based chocolate cream pies to put in the previously empty display case on the counter. When the pies sell out early in the afternoon, Laura hands him the profits which he uses to make twice as many pies the next day.

 

During the lulls between service Laura asks where he learned to cook, which he evades by saying it’s a family secret and makes her smile. She doesn’t have to tell him that it’s gotten busier day by day, but she does and holds out a handful of bills. He can tell by the thickness that it’s more than his take of the tips for the day, and while he knows he should take the money, he hesitates. He knows Laura’s been feeling guilty about not being able to pay him a full wage, but he also knows she’s still not in a position to do so despite the improvement in business.

 

In the end he takes the money, cuts it in half and hands back the other half. She stares at it for a moment and he can see her fighting with herself just like he did, so he shrugs and says, “I was hoping you could add a few things to the next supply delivery for me.”

 

Over the weekend he convinces Lila to put her drawing skills to use and help him make a sign to advertise the specials for the next week. With more reliable service and a slowly expanding menu there are more people coming in. He was correct in assuming the previous patrons were the locals who had remained loyal during the hard times because they were supporting Laura, but now more and more people are coming in the door. There are retirees coming for breakfast, workers from the bank and other businesses coming for lunch and dinner.

 

There’s satisfaction in the work and in making Laura smile and Lila giggle. Cooper is keeping a wary distance, respectful but quiet. Laura has confided in him the loss of her husband – Cooper and Lila’s dad - two years ago in a car accident. The diner was his and had supported the family for years, so she took it on after his passing. Despite staffing loses and increasing costs they had managed for over a year, but the past summer was hard and made harder by the cook she had fired.

 

At the end of the day she lets him out the front after handing him his take of the tips. He always makes a show of heading towards the inn before turning around to make sure she’s no longer watching, then returns to the spot by the creek to wash his clothes and tuck in for the night. It’s a busy but simple life, and he’s surprised how much he enjoys it.

 

***

 

It’s been about a week when Laura approaches him in the kitchen. He hangs up the towel in his hands and leans back against the oven, facing her with a smile. “Was a good day, looks like the ham steaks went over well.”

 

“Thanks to you, yes. Where’d you say you learned to cook, again?”

 

He can tell she’s teasing, but he gives the standard line about it being a family secret anyway.

 

She starts to hold out his share of today’s tips but then hesitates. “I can’t offer you much more than tips right now, and even at the cash rate I know it’s barely enough to cover a room at the inn, so, if you want…”

 

She stops there and motions him to follow her towards the back of the kitchen. There’s a locked door there that he hasn’t bother to pick yet (he doesn’t even question whether he knows how to pick a lock, just knows that with a pair of paperclips from near the register he could have the door open in less than a minute) and she pulls a set of keys as they approach.

 

“Chris owned this place before we got together,” there’s the crease between her eyes that always appears when she talks of her late husband and he pays close attention to her words. “As you’ve found it’s not an easy business, and to make ends meet he turned this store room into a place to live.”

 

The door opens to reveal a room, more a closet than anything. There’s an unmade twin bed pushed against the far wall, a desk and chair, and two other doors. She opens the first to a small bathroom, and then the second which leads out the back into a small alley between streets.

 

“It’s not much but it’s free if you want it. I can have keys made up for you in the morning.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

She gives him a wary look that’s only half for show. “I’m really hoping you aren’t going to screw me over. Please, don’t screw me over?”

 

“No intention of it. And this is perfect.” Seriously, just knowing there’s a shower he’d happily sleep on the floor. The nights are getting colder and his morning bath is a bit more brisk than he prefers.

 

She leaves and comes back with a bag in hand. “The only sheets I could find to fit this that aren’t pink are Cooper’s. I hope you like Captain America. Can I get you anything else?”

 

“What’s wrong with pink?”

 

She laughs and shakes her head, then looks at him seriously for a moment.

 

“I’m all set. Thank you for this.”

 

She bids him good night and shuts the door behind her. He takes another look around the small space before he sets to making the bed. The sheets are covered with the red, white, and blue shield of Captain America and for some reason that makes him pause. He stares at the circular emblem for an embarrassingly long time reaching for some memory that he feels is just out of grasp.

 

He finally gives up in frustration and finishes putting the sheets on before changing into a t shirt and shorts. Turning off the lights he can still see remarkably well given that there’s no window in this room, and despite his exhaustion he finds himself staring at the shields again.

 

Sleep is a long time coming as he mulls over the apparent mystery of the shields, and it’s nearing midnight before he finally drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	5. Chapter 5

 

Chapter 4

 

It’s late, nearing midnight, as Phil bends over notes and pictures and reports from the AIM base. As is his preference he’s turned off the harsh overhead fluorescent lights in favor of the single lamp on the corner of his desk, it’s glow softening the corners of his office.

 

The door opens and he doesn’t have to look up to know who’s there.

 

Nick Fury stands in the shadow of the doorway, dressed all in black and blending with the darkness like an expected but unwanted apparition. The illusion is broken as he steps into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Phil holds his expression steady, not letting his distress show while he meets Nick’s eye as he approaches.

 

Two glass tumblers and a bottle of high-end whiskey are placed on his desk, and still there are no words while Nick pours for them both. Before the amber liquid has stopped splashing, Phil takes his tumbler and throws it back in one go, grimacing and replacing the glass to be refilled before Nick can cap the bottle.

 

Phil pushes back into his seat and reaches one hand up to loosen the knot of his tie. As Nick settles in the chair across from him, he glances back down at the file, at the useless information and wasted hours which have failed to find Clint. Phil shuffles the papers back into place and closes the folder, Clint’s picture staring up at them feeling a lot more accusatory than before. Taking a more measured sip he relishes the burn this time, using it to steel himself to look Nick in the eye.

 

“It changes nothing. I won’t stop looking. I can’t… won’t believe it until he’s--.” His voice deserts him. He looks down at the glass in his hands for the last of his courage. “Until he’s found. One way or another.”

 

Nick raises his glass at last, nods firmly to Phil and drinks. It’s what finally breaks him - the silent acknowledgement that despite needing to close the case as the Director of Shield, Nick will support Phil in this, to whatever end.

 

It starts low in his chest and bubbles up, burning his throat before squeezing past his clenched teeth in a wheeze of breath. He leans forward over the desk to support his elbows on the hard wood and presses his face into his hands while he sobs. There are tears and spit and snot running down his palms and forearms but he doesn’t care. He’s so lost in it that he doesn’t register Nick’s hand on his shoulder; a silent tether to pull him back, that he will be thankful for soon but not just yet.

 

For now he finally lets the grief consume him, lets a month of suppressed anguish come forward and wash him away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

 

Before he knows it, months have passed. Most mornings he wakes thinking it’s time to move on, that growing roots is a bad idea, that the nearly $2000 in his bag is enough to take him away. But then Laura smiles at him when she and the kids come in, and Lila shares her drawings with him. Even Cooper’s grudgingly coming to accept his presence more, and is less grudgingly eating the pancakes he makes for them.

 

He’s still an outsider here but the name James “Jimmy” Coughlin makes it around town, and the people coming to the diner become familiar to him. There’s Mr. Anderson, the surly and suspicious bookstore owner who has only ever been married to his books and has a soft spot for cherry pie. Mrs. Miller runs the inn with her granddaughter, her husband having succumbed to pneumonia three years before. Ms. Anderson, no relation to the bookstore owner, who teaches Lila at school and encourages her drawings. Cooper’s teacher Ms. Johnson is a strict, older woman who likes her gravy on the side and extra onions. Dave works for the parks department, likes his meat red, and despite what he said that first day, likes his burger with all the fixin’s.

 

There’s the massive Williams family, local for generations and owns over a thousand acres of wild and farm land. While most of the family remains on the farm some have found jobs in town, such as Sandy, a middle aged banker (partial to macaroni salad and pickles) and Noah who manages the local farm/feed store. Sarah, away at law school in Laramie, is the pride of the family and the letters she sends home from the “Big City” are shared around the table on Sundays, when most of the family is in town for church and stop for brunch after. Bruce, Mike, and Matt are some of the unmarried younger generation and make plans for the upcoming hunting season over Cokes and burgers most Friday nights.

 

By agreement he gets most Tuesday and Thursday mornings off after breakfast, and he spends the time exploring different shops, skimming the racks at the second-hand store for more layers and clothes to make it through the coming winter, and hiking. Climbing over hills and across fast running creeks, he tells himself that he’s just enjoying the beauty of the country, and ignores the voice that debates the pros and cons of each trail in the event of needing a quick escape route.

 

When it’s too miserably wet outside he can usually be found at the library, where banana bread for Ms. Smith will get him a couple of uninterrupted hours on the internet. He’s making his way through the missing persons of the Midwest, but with no name, starting location, date of disappearance, and a healthy reluctance to put any particulars in about gender, age, and appearance, he’s unsurprisingly found no clues to help unlock his memory.

 

He’s still shaking the bitter cold out of his fingers after a hike one Tuesday when Laura knocks on the door to his room. She smiles at him when he opens the door into the kitchen.

 

“I thought I heard you come in. I wanted to talk to you about Thursday if you have a minute.”

 

He leans against the doorframe, giving an air of being more relaxed then he feels as his mind races. “Thursday?”

 

“The diner will be closed for Thanksgiving, and I wasn’t sure what your plans were.”

 

Huh. Despite the decorations throughout town, the changing leaves and now nearly bare trees, he hasn’t given much thought to the holiday approaching. He probably should have realized the diner would be closed.

 

“Ok. Do you need me out of here for the day?”

 

She looks surprised for a moment, “What? No…” She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a gust. “I’m trying to invite you over for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t want you to feel like you have to come, you already have to deal with me and the kids enough and it’s your first day off in forev—“

 

“I’d love to.” He smiles and stops her rant which had been picking up speed.

 

“Great!” She relaxes like strings have been cut and he can’t help a fond smile settling across his lips. “Come over around noon. And don’t bring anything, for once we’ll cook for you.”

 

***

 

When he rings the doorbell on Thursday there’s a sudden cacophony of sound from inside. He can hear Lila squeal and Laura calling for Cooper over the noise of a dog barking and scratching at the door from the inside. The door opens to reveal Laura bent over holding a black lab mix by the collar as it strains forward.

 

“Max stop! Coop, come get Max!”

 

While Cooper grumbles from somewhere further inside he drops into a crouch, reaching slowly out towards Max and offering the back of a hand for the dog to smell. He’s heard about the dog and occasionally Lila will draw pictures of him, but this is his first time meeting the animal. Speaking in his normal voice he talks to Max, keeping up a stream of nonsense and throwing in the dog’s name frequently. Max sniffs at his hand, pulling back enough that Laura’s able to loosen her hold on his collar. Creeping forward slowly he can finally wrap a hand around the dog’s neck and down his shoulder. He keeps petting as Max reaches out to sniff at his chin, and when a wet tongue runs up his cheek he laughs and figures he’s been accepted.

 

Laura’s looking at him a bit flabbergasted, and Cooper behind her has a similar expression on his face. “I’ve always been good with animals,” he offers quietly, running both hands down the dog’s flanks before giving him a solid thump on his side and standing.

 

“More like a miracle worker. Max has been difficult with strangers since Chris died…”

 

Cooper gives him a wounded look and calls Max to him, disappearing down the hallway. Well, shit.

 

He bends to pick up the bottle he’d set down while greeting Max and holds it out. “I have it on Betsy’s good authority that this is the best wine in town.”

 

She takes it and welcomes him in, closing the door behind him. “We’re running a bit behind today, but let me give you the grand tour.” He follows her into the kitchen. It’s warm and muggy, and the counters are filled with the detritus of making a holiday feast.

 

It looks like he interrupted her peeling potatoes considering the white lumps on the cutting board. There’s a pot of boiling water on the stove throwing steam into the air, and the heat coming from the oven suggests the turkey is still cooking. There are packaged rolls waiting on a cookie sheet for space in the oven, and a pumpkin pie is attempting to cool on the bar separating the kitchen from the dining room.

 

After taking a bottle opener from a drawer she leads him into the dining room, where the table’s already set. He’s taking in the hand-shaped turkey drawing sitting on what he presumes is his plate (it’s labeled JiMMy) when the artist comes running into the room with a squeal of delight. “Jimmy, look! I made them in school for mommy and Cooper! I made one for you!”

 

“It’s beautiful! Thank you!” He sets the drawing down and turns to face her fully, puts a hand on his hips and frowns playfully down at her. “Now what’s this? Where ever did you find such a pretty dress?” She’s put on a yellow dress and a pink sweater, her blonde hair pulled back in her usual pigtails.

 

“Mommy! For my sixth birthday!” She giggles and then grabs his hand, “Come on! I’ll show you my room!” Meeting Laura’s gaze he notes the laughter in her eyes, and he smiles back helplessly as he’s pulled from the room.

 

He spends the next half an hour being introduced to the stuffed animals and dolls on her neatly made bed before Laura calls for them all with a reminder to wash their hands and grab drinks on the way to the dining room.

 

The table is set with turkey, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and Laura’s just adding the fresh-baked rolls as he follows Lila back to the dining room. They pass dishes and he helps Lila load her plate – “more turkey no beans, please.”

 

He is about to dig in when he feels Cooper kick him under the table, and he finds the boy looking at him like he’s an idiot. “We have to say Grace first.”

 

He feels his face flame and drops his fork with an apology and a sheepish, “Looks so good I forgot.”

 

No need to mention that, as far as he remembers, this is his first Thanksgiving - the only thing he knows of Grace is the pictures at the store of families sitting down to laden tables and holding hands with bowed heads.

 

He extends his hand out across the table towards Cooper, the other to Lila beside him, and when the circle is complete Laura leads them through a quick word of thanks before they return to the meal. He takes up his fork, but this time waits until everyone else has taken a bite to start eating. It is very good, and he compliments Laura as he digs in with gusto – he hadn’t bothered to cook for himself this morning and he’s getting soft, expecting three squares a day.

 

Despite a massive amount of food the dinner passes quickly with chatter from Lila and teasing from Cooper and their mom encouraging them to talk about school and their friends. He gets the feeling she is trying to keep them distracted so they don’t notice the unoccupied chair at the head of the table. He keeps quiet just enjoying the family talking around him in ways that aren’t possible while at work.

 

When the plates are empty and everyone is pushed back in their chairs, resting hands on full bellies, Laura kicks them out to the living room. He tries to help with clearing, but she takes the dishes from his hands and waves him away. He finds Cooper already on one side of the couch watching football so he joins him. He scrambles for something to say to take the guarded look away from the boy’s eyes, but he doesn’t know where to start. It’s made worse when Max ambles up to him and lays down over his feet.

 

During a commercial break the silence spreads painfully thick between them, so he starts with the first thing to come to mind. “Do you play?” he motions at the TV, and figures Cooper’s smart enough to know he means football.

 

Cooper snorts at him and folds his arms. “No.” Yeah, he probably could have figured that out – he’s seen other boys in their uniforms after Saturday afternoon games, he should have known Cooper didn’t.

 

“Oh. Seems like a fun sport.” It really doesn’t.

 

The boy shrugs at him. “Mom won’t let me. Says it’s too dangerous.”

 

“That’s probably fair.”

 

Silence descends again, and he turns back to the game with defeat sitting heavy next to the turkey in his gut. He’s not sure who is surprised more, himself or Cooper, when the boy takes mercy on him.

 

“I want to play baseball.”

 

“Yea? What position do you play?”

 

There’s that shrug again, but this one is more despondent than defensive. “Last year I could have tried for the team, but I didn’t. Things were hard on my mom…” Cooper’s staring at the TV. He doesn’t know what to say so he just waits, letting Cooper sort through his thoughts. “I haven’t even thrown a ball since my dad. I’ll probably be terrible.”

 

He swallows. “Sounds like you just need some practice. Maybe one of your friends will play with you?”

 

Cooper scoffs at him, “Billy, he’s my best friend, he played last year and was MVP.” He sees through the act to see the boy beneath - too afraid of embarrassment to try.

 

“I can’t say I’ll be any good at it, but I’ll let you throw a ball at me if you want.” He doesn’t let himself look away when Cooper turns to him with a suspicious frown, and he’s relieved when the stalemate is broken by Laura calling them back for dessert.

 

He manages not to embarrass himself this time. The pie is delicious, and he even manages to get a jump on clearing the dishes when Laura goes to put a sleepy Lila down for a nap.

 

He’s rinsing the plates in the sink replaying the day when he is hit with some uncomfortable truths – he’s more comfortable here than he should be, he has a terribly deep soft spot for this small family, and he has no idea how to do this. He has nothing to share, no history to give and anything he says is either a lie or an inadvertent truth, both of which could be dangerous for him. And for this family. He’ll never forgive himself if Laura or the kids get hurt because of him and his past.

 

Taking a deep breath to stave off the panic he tries to see things a bit more clearly. There have been no signs that the mysterious AIM group is still following him. It’s nearly winter, and work will be scarce trying to move on now. Spending nights on the frozen ground and hitchhiking south for the winter sounds very unappealing compared to a warm bed and reliable meals. So for now he will stay, but he’ll have to tell Laura he plans to move on in the spring. Not today - that would be a poor return for her opening her home to him - but soon.

 

He covers his sudden melancholy with a bright smile as he makes his excuses and his goodbyes, gives his thanks for the meal and the company and walks the cold three blocks back to his room. If it seems a bit gloomy that’s surely just the overcast evening washing over him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
> Short comments  
>  Long comments  
>  Questions  
>  “<3” as extra kudos  
>  Reader-reader interaction
> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
>  Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	7. Chapter 7

 

Chapter 6

 

Phil’s slumped on the couch trying to find something to suit his mood, avoiding the family-friendly made for TV movies, the bright and flashy sports channels, and vehemently flipping past the Christmas cartoons already popping up.

 

He’s trying not to be disappointed about the bad guys apparently taking the holiday off – for the first time in years he signed up to be on call during Thanksgiving, and despite being on back-to-back missions for four weeks, it suddenly dried up today of all days.

 

He kind of wants to throw the remote through the TV.

 

The personal text alert on his phone goes off beside him, but he can’t be bothered to answer. It’s probably Maria or Nick giving him hell for not coming to Jasper’s. He’d politely come up with excuse after excuse before finally telling Jasper flat out no, he’d rather spend the day at home, thank you.

 

Not for one second does he think Jasper bought the lie - the last place Phil’s wanted to be these days is home. More likely he understood the real reason Phil couldn’t be around the newly-minted couple. He supposes he should find some solace that even one good thing came out of Clint’s disappearance; that Jasper finally got off his ass to ask Maria out. He’s happy for their friends but there’s no way he can be around them all right now.

 

He’s not particularly surprised when the doorbell rings next, and he makes no move besides thumbing to the next channel. The chime sounds again, followed by a lengthy pause when he thinks whoever it is may have given up, at least until he hears the door open and the security alarm being disabled. Ah, Natasha, then.

 

It’s petulant but he refuses to meet her eyes when she appears in the doorway.

 

She’s not fazed and comes to sit beside him, setting a bag of Chinese food and a store-bought pumpkin pie on his coffee table. He doesn’t say anything when she thrusts a container of food against his chest, but he does growl at her while he grabs the chopsticks she keeps poking into his arm. She folds her legs under herself and starts in on her own dinner, staring at the screen which continues to cycle through stations on mute.

 

He’s still resolutely ignoring her and her willful disturbance of his moping when his gaze is drawn to the pie, the orangish brown pulp visible through the plastic container beneath a “Buy One, Get One” sticker.

 

It’s the same pie Natasha brings every year to Thanksgiving, every year since Clint brought her in from the cold and broke her out of SHIELD containment that first year. He still remembers Clint’s face when he’d returned home with the assassin, the hard look in his eyes when he insisted, “She doesn’t belong in a cell, not today especially.”

 

There’s a hollowness inside him filling with self-loathing at the realization of what a poor friend he’s been these months. Natasha had been on a deep cover op when Clint went missing, and by the time she returned weeks after the investigation was halted, he was so far down a hole of grief and skipping around the world to avoid facing the pain, that he’d forgotten about her. For as untouchable as she pretends to be, he knows what Clint means to her.

 

And now, despite the hurt she must feel she’s still here, sharing a meal with him so they don’t have to be alone. He’s been an ass, plain and simple.

 

Staring at the pie he feels her tense and still beside him. He can recognize her flight response gearing up, can practically feel her questioning whether she’s overstepped some boundary. The tension is nearing a point of no return when he finally moves, unhurriedly lifting his hands to work the chopsticks out of their paper wrapper and opening the container on his chest.

 

They eat in silence as the bright lights of the TV wash over them. He’s picking the last of the vegetables out from among the noodles, still trying to figure out how to start an apology when she speaks.

 

“I know.” Of course she does. His hands drop to his lap and he hangs his head with a sigh. “It’s ok. Just… I don’t want to lose you, too.”

 

He’s sure his wince is visible to her but he refuses to hide how deep her words cut – he deserves it. He puts his food and chopsticks down on the coffee table then returns to his reclined position, lifting the arm nearest her to rest against the back of the couch.

 

Wordlessly she tilts toward him, resting her head on his chest, and that simple acceptance of comfort reinforces how deeply she’s been hurting.

 

Leaving his arm on the couch so she doesn’t feel trapped, he presses his lips to her hair. “I am so sorry, Natasha. I’m here. I’m sorry and I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” She nods against his chest and he knows he’s forgiven, and she knows he isn’t going to hide anymore, not from her at least.

 

He pulls a throw from the back of the couch over her legs, and she kindly doesn’t say anything about the extra pillows and blankets piled around them (and he doesn’t offer that he still finds it hard to sleep in a bed without Clint.) They settle on a comedy they haven’t seen before, and neither of them mentions how Clint would probably love the humor in the show. His arm falls asleep but he refuses to move it, refuses to chance waking Natasha where she’s tucked against him, refuses to disrupt this fragile peace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	8. Chapter 8

 

Chapter 7

 

The weeks after Thanksgiving seem to fly by, even busier than usual as more families come from the outlying ranges and farms to send mail and shop for gifts. He makes batches of ginger bread and sugar cookies, and lets Lila help him decorate them. There’s chili and stews and casseroles to buffer against the cold rolling through the valley. Laura even ropes them all into helping decorate the front windows with handmade snowflakes and window paintings and lights.

 

Since the first weekend after Thanksgiving he has been making time to throw a baseball with Cooper. Usually, for twenty or thirty minutes before the dinner rush, they head out back or across the street to a small park beside the post office. He plays without a glove and they go until his fingers are numb with cold before venturing back inside. After, when he stands wincing against the pain of warming his frozen fingers too rapidly under hot water, he recalls the smile on the Cooper’s flushed face and it’s enough to take the sting out of his hands.

 

In all he’s been busy, so it’s little wonder he hasn’t had the time to tell Laura he will be resigning soon. And with the season’s cheer in the air it seems like a terrible time to break the news. It can wait, especially with Christmas three days away. Besides, he has important things to decide on right now…

 

“Pink or purple?” the bored teenager asks him. He’s trying to find Christmas gifts for Laura and the kids on one of his mornings off, having garnered an invitation for the holiday. After fruitless searching two mornings ago, he finally saw an advertisement for a kid’s-size briefcase for art supplies – markers and pencils and paper. On his tour of Lila’s room he remembers seeing most of her supplies in a plastic gallon-sized bag, and thought she might appreciate the box. Panicking for a minute he finally decides on pink, which seems to be her favorite color.

 

Once he’s made his purchases he takes the bags to the post office, where the Women’s Auxiliary has set up a gift-wrapping station. They do an excellent job and add bows and ribbons and tags, so he leaves them a sizable donation out of sheer relief. He can cook alright, but presentation isn’t his strong suit and he suspects the same would hold true with gift wrapping.

 

When he gets back to his room he stores the beautifully wrapped boxes under the bed. Finally done with shopping, his excitement for the holiday takes hold, and he finds himself trying to picture Christmas morning; the kids opening their gifts and making the French toast he promised Cooper, preparing dinner together, and having cookies and hot cocoa after.

 

He knows that this will make it harder to leave in the end. That he’s creating this home that he can’t have, and he’d be safer to keep his distance. And yet the bright daydreams of Christmas are too alluring, so he shakes off the pessimism and let’s himself enjoy the dream for now. After all, it’s Christmas, and it’s nice to pretend that he may get something that he wants.

 

***

 

He arrives early Christmas day as directed; not surprised to see Lila and Cooper already up and practically vibrating with excitement. Max greets him at the door, darting back and forth between him and the living room where the kids are poking around under the tree and sorting their gifts into piles. Laura takes the box of gifts out of his hands, so he heads to the kitchen to put breakfast supplies in the fridge. He’s hurried into the living room after and handed a mug of still warm hot chocolate.

 

“Santa came!” Lila gushes at him. Cooper rolls his eyes but thankfully holds his tongue, and he settles on the couch where directed next to Laura while the kids sit on the floor next to their respective gifts. Max nudges at his hand so he rubs up and down the black fur and sips from his mug.

 

It’s clear the family has a system, each taking a turn to open a gift while the others watch and share in the joy and excitement. Laura has a camera out for the first few, but it quickly becomes forgotten as Lila and Cooper alternate gift opening. Most of the items are practical, such as new sneakers and clothes for each, a new backpack for Cooper who’s current one is held together with pins where Laura’s patching work is starting to wear loose, new toothbrushes and pink hair bands for Lila. But there’s also a new stuffed animal and baseball cards from Santa.

 

When Lila opens the pink art case she squeals and rushes over to him, climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck repeating “Thank you, Mr. Jimmy!” into his ear. Loudly.

 

She rushes off to her room for the bag of drawing supplies which she promptly dumps onto the floor and begins placing neatly into the case. Cooper opens next and he feels himself relax when a smile breaks over the boy’s face while lifting the newest Captain America comic book and T-shirt combo set from the box. He even mutters a quiet, “Cool,” under his breath.

 

“Cooper, what do you say?” Laura prompts.

 

“Thanks,” comes the distracted reply. Laura clearly seems to think it’s rude, but he’ll count it as a win.

 

“Jimmy’s turn!”

 

He looks up in surprise as a package is deposited in his lap, the fat Santas on the wrapping paper jolly and rosy cheeked. He has to fight the urge to look around in bewilderment and tries to not let his discomfort show as he carefully turns the package and starts lifting the taped edges. Inside he finds a pair of thick purple and black checkered flannel pajama pants with matching purple T-shirt.

 

He hides his confusion as he looks up into Lila’s gleeful face. “Christmas jammies!” She giggles and jumps up and down in front of him. He glances at Laura who has a sheepish look on her face and is a little pink in the cheeks.

 

“It’s kind of like a tradition – new pajamas for Christmas and we wear them all day long. Lila thought you should have your own pair.” She looks at her daughter’s smiling face. “Remember what we talked about, he doesn’t have to wear them if he doesn’t want to.”

 

He can’t take the way the girl’s face falls for even a second before he’s scrambling to reassure her, saying of course he’ll wear them, he’d be honored. “I’ll go get changed,” and he does just that, excusing himself to the bathroom. He spends a brief moment staring at the knife he’d taken from his belt before carefully folding it into his clothes; he’s safe here. Shaking off the barest twinge of unease he exits the room, leaving his folded clothes by the front door before rejoining the family in the living room.

 

During his absence Laura has managed to unwrap a handmade Christmas story Lila’s class created, and a silver bracelet with little charms of the kids’ birthstones hanging from it. Cooper has been doing extra chores for him around the kitchen for the last few weeks to earn the money to buy it, and he looks quietly pleased with himself when Laura’s eyes shine and she slides off the couch to pull both the kids into a hug.

 

He tries to back out of the room before he can disrupt the moment, but of course he manages to step on Max who is standing right behind him and has to scramble not to fall. Lila rushes up to him and hugs him again around the waist when she sees the pajamas in place, then takes his hand to guide him back to his seat where he’s surprised to see another neatly wrapped package. He slowly removes the wrapping paper, delaying the reveal to keep the kids’ attention while Laura composes herself.

 

A few seconds later a used but well cared for baseball glove falls into his lap, well-oiled and perfectly worn in. And, surprisingly, left handed. When he looks at Cooper the boy is putting on an air of indifference, pretending to flip through his new cards while watching from the corner of his eye.

 

“Thank you, Cooper. This is perfect.” And he knows he was right to assume the glove was primarily from the boy when he shrugs and turns bright red.

 

With presents opened Laura brings in a plastic garbage bag for the tattered papers and bows and ribbons, minus the massive red bow Lila has managed to pin to her head. He excuses himself to the kitchen where he pulls the supplies from the fridge and searches through the cupboards to find what he needs to start breakfast. The morning replays in his mind as the bread browns in a pan, and he can’t stop the smile from spreading stupidly over his face.

 

It may be the only Christmas he remembers, but somehow, he knows it’s one of the best days of his entire life.

 

***

 

Following a short respite after breakfast they head out for a walk, bundled in thick coats and gloves over their pajamas. He is strolling beside Laura as the kids race ahead with Max, all three of them smiling madly amidst a cacophony of barking and laughing and giggling. There was a snowfall overnight, just a dusting, but it’s enough to cover the brown grass and leave their footprints exposed behind them.

 

“I know we said no gifts,” Laura begins unexpectedly, and he has to stop himself from worrying that he messed up by not bringing something for her. “And, well, I suppose it’s not really a gift as much as an inevitability, but I wanted to let you know that the diner is doing well, really well, and I am going to look into hiring another cook. Maybe even a waitress. It would just be part time, but you won’t have to work every day anymore.”

 

Now’s the time, it would be so easy to tell her she should hire a full time cook because he will be leaving soon. That he will give her until the new year and then he is gone.

 

He doesn’t, of course. Can’t get the words to leave his throat.

 

Cooper teasingly pulls on his sister’s pigtails then rushes ahead, Max chasing after them both. Laura is warm beside him, snow crunching beneath their boots, and his heart clenches with want so tightly he loses his breath. He doesn’t know where he came from or why, but he’s wondering if maybe he can’t belong here, at least for a little while.

 

***

 

They spend the afternoon watching Christmas movies and Laura makes a lasagna for dinner. After dinner Lila insists on watching another movie despite her already drooping eyelids, so they return to the living room and _How the Grinch Stole Christmas._

One second he’s petting Max where the dog is snuggled into his side while his cartoon namesake races down a mountain with a horn and a red nose, and the next he’s being shaken awake by Laura. The room is lit by the tree lights and the blue screen on the TV, the kids nowhere to be seen.

 

“Hey, you all left me as last man standing, there.” She smiles at him as he tries to wake up, sitting up and rubbing his hands up and down his face. Max wakes up next and huffs at him, sliding off the couch to curl up on his bed in the corner, back to them in indignation.

 

“What time is it?” he manages to ask around a yawn.

 

“Just before ten.” He’s finally awake enough to see the pillow and blanket in her hands, which she holds up. “You don’t have to go, you know. But I thought you might want to be able to move your neck in the morning.”

 

He’s tempted, so very tempted. But sanity reasserts itself and he shakes his head, standing and stretching. He ignores the way her eyes drift to the expanse of his stomach exposed by his shirt riding up- he knows what he looks like, he’d probably look too. Doesn’t mean anything.

 

“Thank you, but I’m going to head back,” he turns around the couch and she follows him into the hall. He dresses for the trek back as they exchange pleasantries and thanks and “it was a great days.” She holds onto the doorframe to watch him go, and though he can’t be sure, it may be the hardest, coldest walk of his life.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Phil spends Christmas in the desert with Natasha, chasing gun traffickers who decided to diversify into kids. The distraction is the best damn Christmas present he could ask for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	9. Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9

 

The New Year starts with two new workers at the diner, both teenagers from the local high school. Brian is a senior, graduating in the spring and looking to earn money for a year or two before trying college. Mary is a junior with a new car just trying to earn gas money. The first few weeks are less than ideal; tripping over each other and learning to accommodate for new people in the kitchen.

 

Brian has a bad habit of singing while he works, and Mary’s never far from her cell phone.

 

But as they work through the kinks they pick up steam, and the diner is busier than ever, crowded with teenagers on the weekends Mary or Brian are working. They sell out of hamburger buns twice before adjusting the stocking slip correctly.

 

He’s watching Brian finish up prep before dinner service and can’t help but compare this cool, confident young man to the gangly teenager who dropped two full pots of gravy his first week. The experience has been rewarding in a whole new way.

 

That’s not the only new thing since Christmas – he has a regular paycheck now, and two nights off a week. But the thing he looks most forward to is weekly dinners with the family, one night a week when both Laura and he take the night off. He’ll be heading there shortly, will play catch with Cooper before helping to finish up dinner. Then Lila will corner him into playing dolls or drawing or braiding her hair (a disaster the first time; now recognizable as a French braid.)

 

But his favorite part of the night is when Laura escorts him to the door, standing on the porch in the cold talking nonsense about work or the kids or the weather to delay having to part. He recognizes the way Laura looks at him, knows that she has caught him watching her, and it both entices and terrifies him.

 

Brian must catch him smiling like an idiot, because the next thing he knows he’s being shooed out of the kitchen with reassurances that, “We’ll be fine, boss man.”

 

***

 

The evening passes perfectly. He throws the baseball around with Cooper, who’s looking better than ever, and the boy beams at the praise. After a dinner of homemade pizza he paints Lila’s fingernails an alternating pink and purple, listening to her chattering about her friend Beth at school who got a kitten for Christmas and brought it in for show-and-tell today. At the end of the night Cooper is sent to help Lila brush her teeth and change for bed while Laura walks him out.

 

Their breath turns to fog before them, and they laugh about Punxsutawney Phil’s erroneous prediction of an early spring. She’s shivering in the cold, so he slides closer to press against her side. There’s a pause after their laughter dies out, and he can feel the air shift between them.

 

“They’re like different kids, you know? This time last year was… well it was rough on all of us, but it felt like they were having the worst of it. Thing’s didn’t really get better until you walked in the door.” She’s looking at him like he hung the moon, turning to face him and closer than he realized. “Just up and appeared like the answer to a prayer.”

 

He meets her halfway, and her lips on his are soft and warm. She tastes like chocolate and smells like home. He pulls her closer with an arm around her back to deepen the kiss as she slides a hand into his hair. Want surges through him and he nearly loses himself in it, probably would have, if her thumb hadn’t brushed just right across the healed scar hidden by his hair.

 

He pulls back as if burned, pushing her away gently. Laura turns scarlet and wraps her hands around herself, ducking her chin into her collar. He is still trying to figure out what to say when she looks up at him and huffs out an embarrassed laugh.

 

“So I guess I shouldn’t have done that, huh?” Her hand goes to cover her lips, “Maybe we can forget that happened?”

 

“What? No!” He realizes he probably responded a little too harshly but doesn’t want her to think this is in anyway her fault. “No, Laura, that was perfect, it’s not…”

 

“Oh, God, please don’t go with ‘it isn’t you, it’s me’.”

 

“…you, it’s me.” He can see her closing herself off, and he rushes on. “No, really, it is. Look, I just need—Can we just—I want, need to talk to you before we do this.”

 

She looks away and blows out a breath, so he lifts a hand to her cheek to turn her back, willing her to look into his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Laura, with a beautiful family. I don’t want to ruin that so please, let’s talk.”

 

He holds his breath until she gives a small nod a few seconds later, the mist rising between them. “I’m sorry I ruined the moment.”

 

She waves his apology away, “No, you’re right, we should discuss this.”

 

“Tomorrow?”

 

She agrees, and he finally pulls away, backing off the porch and giving a small wave. He’s barely conscious of the cold around him as he tries to decide what he’ll say the next day, and how even the basics are likely to send her running. He wonders if that wouldn’t in the end be better for her and ignores the weight in his chest at the thought.

 

***

 

She waits until it’s just the two of them alone in the diner after breakfast to join him in the kitchen. He still doesn’t know what to say so he just keeps chopping the vegetables on his cutting board. As she flits about him doing various chores, he wonders if maybe she doesn’t know what to say either, or if she just wants to forget about the night before.

 

She waits until he’s moved on to mashing eggs and bread crumbs into ground beef to settle her back against the counter beside him. “It’s a bad idea, isn’t it?”

 

He scoffs and smiles. “Probably.” As if he hasn’t stuck with some pretty bad ideas recently. He’s still here, for example.

 

“If it’s the kids I’ll talk to them.”

 

“It is certainly about the kids, but that’s not all.” He finishes mixing the beef and washes his hands, drying them on a towel. “I never learned to cook.” He knows he’s confused her. With a sigh he drops the towel on the counter and leans on the counter opposite her, crossing his arms and ankles.

 

“Or, at least I have no memory of learning to cook. In fact, I have no memory before last summer.”

 

“The surgery you mentioned?”

 

“So it would appear,” he hedges – as if this isn’t enough, how do you tell someone you woke up strapped to a bed and guarded by men with guns? She still looks confused, as if she’s searching for the clue in a puzzle.

 

“Why didn’t you stay, surely your doctors would have helped you?”

 

He huffs a short, humorless laugh. “Not an option.” Her intelligent brown eyes are searching his face.

 

“Is Jimmy your real name?” To her credit she isn’t flinching, just looking for information and trying to establish a new baseline between them.

 

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. It works but it’s never seemed to fit, you know?” It’s probably not fair to turn the questioning on her, but the feeling of exposure is making it difficult to stay in this conversation. She’s quiet for a while and chews at her lip. “I meant it when I said it’s not you, it’s me.

 

“I swear I’ve never intentionally lied to you. When I told you I had surgery, I didn’t mention that I don’t remember going under the knife, or anything from my life before then. All I know is I woke up last summer with a new scar and people who wanted to hurt me and I ran. I was running for weeks before I found this place and knew I wanted to stop, for a while.”

 

She turns to look at him with her jaw set and he braces for the anger, for having to pack his bags and get out in a hurry. He’s totally unprepared for her to shrug and say, “Ok.”

 

“What?” Ok what? Ok, time for you to go? Ok, I’ll call the cops now?

 

“Ok, I believe you, and I still want to try this. I should probably talk to Cooper and Lila first, but I want to try.”

 

“Wha—but – didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t know who I am, what kind of man I am. I mean, what kind of asshole must I be to have gotten myself into that position?”

 

She comes to stand in front of him, spreading her feet around his in order to come closer and place her hands on his still-crossed arms. “It seems to me that the kind of man you were has little bearing on the man you are. The man who walked in and saved my business, who makes my kids laugh for the first time in two years, who feeds the stray cats in the alley and don’t think I don’t know about that.” She smiles at him and dips her head to meet his eyes. “This man is a good man, you are a good man.”

 

As she leans in to kiss him, he can’t help the betrayal of his thoughts which whisper: you don’t know that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today, so I'll plan to get the next one up tomorrow! (Finishing some continuity edits after making a change further down the line.)

Chapter 10

 

Phil’s in a bad mood when he gets home, and it isn’t improved by the dark, empty rooms. He slides his shoes off without untying them and leaves his coat to wrinkle on the back of the couch. The only light he turns on is in the kitchen and he’s halfway through a beer before Natasha slides silently into the room.

 

She braces her hands on the wall behind her and stares at him. He scoffs and drinks again, looking away from her critical gaze.

 

“I think you made them cry.” She’s clearly amused rather than judgmental and he’s not sure that’s better.

 

“They deserved worse than that,” he snaps, downing the rest of his beer and opening the fridge for another.

 

“Did they?”

 

He frowns at her.

 

“Of course they did. They’re useless to SHIELD. Idiots.”

 

He hates the way she tilts her head at him. It’s almost enough to make him feel guilty for tearing into the recruits this afternoon. It was their first day on base and they were just finishing the tour, walking into the conference room where Nick had assigned him to put the fear of, well, Fury into them. He’d certainly accomplished that, if not in the way intended.

 

He’d been standing at the front of the room waiting for them, and as the last meeting in a long day of meetings, he supposes it’s expected they would neatly dismiss him, taking his bland appearance to mean yet another paper pusher they just had to get through before dinner. He probably would have forgiven them and corrected them with a simple word, gone about scaring them appropriately before sending them on their way. That was until the name Hawkeye crossed one of their lips, followed by a demeaning opinion on the use of a bow to achieve range records.

 

Even now he can’t remember most of what he said to them, but he’s sure much of it was more revealing that he would have liked it to be. He hadn’t yelled, but he has been told he has much more intimidating volumes; judging by the state of their faces as he left the room, it was likely their fear would be of him, not Fury. From that conference room he had come straight home.

 

“Are they?” She’s baiting him and he lets her, rage pouring out from him.

 

“Of course they are! Thinking they know anything about Hawkeye. They don’t have any right even talking about him!”

 

There’s that head tilt again. “They don’t know him.”

 

“They should!” His rage leaves him with a choked sound, and he slumps against the counter. Ah, of course.

 

“I don’t want them to forget about him, Natasha.” He pauses, crossing his arms across his chest when he realizes that isn’t it, not quite. She seems to know it too as she waits patiently for him to figure it out. “I don’t want to forget about him.”

 

Crossing the room, he dumps the rest of the beer down the sink and rinses the bottle. He leaves her in the kitchen while he gathers up his shoes, untying the laces and placing them neatly on the mat near the door. The suit jacket he had been wearing is hung with care in the closet, wrinkles brushed out before they can set. Natasha’s waiting for him in the living room when he returns.

She settles on the opposite end of the couch, back against the arm rest and legs pulled up in front of her. He thinks he knows where this came from now, why he’s so unsettled and has felt at odds for days.

 

Three days ago he had a normal day: woke up, went to work, helped plan an op, cleared his email. Picked up pizza and watched reruns of Top Chef. It was a good day, satisfying, and it wasn’t until he’d try to go to bed that it had tumbled down around him.

 

The realization that he’d made it an entire day without grief clogging his airway even once had rocked him hard, shaken him to his core.

 

He refuses to acknowledge the moisture gathering in his eyes, or the wet track making it’s way down his cheek.

 

It feels like penance for his errors as he finally whispers it aloud, “I’m afraid I’ll forget to miss him.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	11. Chapter 11

 

Chapter 11

 

After waking up in that research facility, he never could have predicted that he would find this simple happiness.

 

He’s been taking things slowly with Laura like they decided, and after only a few days of Cooper giving him the side eye things have settled into a nice rhythm. It’s not significantly different from the preceding weeks in shape, but he greets and parts from Laura with a hug or kiss and they stand a bit closer when they work side by side in the kitchen.

 

They spend more evenings all together, and most nights end with watching TV or reading on the couch with one of the girls pressed against his side. Even the nights he has off while Laura works he can be found in her house feeding the kids and helping with homework and playing with them. It’s surprising how satisfying this relationship is even without any more physical aspects to it yet.

 

About six weeks after the discussion in the kitchen the first major tribulation hits since his arrival. The winter has often been bitterly cold, the harsh weather taking a toll on the wildlife in the region. One Wednesday afternoon in late April, tragedy nearly strikes.

 

A cougar was spotted stalking a young girl playing in the yard; an outright attack narrowly averted when her mother happened to glimpse the cat out the barn doors and managed to chase it away by banging a rake against an upturned metal bucket.

 

He hears the story from Dave when the man comes to the diner to hang a notice, a warning to be vigilant. Over the next few days the cat is sighted in and around town half a dozen times, and it’s got everyone on edge. People are careful not to go outside alone, particularly after dark, while others take a more offensive approach: openly carrying handguns and keeping loaded shotguns in the back of cars and trucks.

 

The situation makes him tense, but it has less to do with the rogue feline and more to do with the firearms. He’s woken twice this week with nightmares about the facility he escaped from, and more than once he’s had to stop himself from overreacting to a customer reaching past the gun on their belt for their wallet.

 

Six days after the initial incident, he’s taking a dinner order from a table of three when a gunshot rings out. There’s a scream from someone at the counter but he’s already pulling the door open, ushering a couple that had been walking past inside as he rushes out.

 

His heart’s in his throat as he looks both ways, searching for Laura’s familiar figure – she’d gone home to walk Max, but she should be on the way back by now. He doesn’t see her, and the few people he can see are darting inside the cars and buildings lining the street. He starts jogging towards home but only makes it a few steps when another shot rings out behind him, and he spins toward the sound.

 

There’s a woman two blocks away, and when she sees him she starts to shout and wave her hands, pointing back around the corner she’s just turned. He spends a split second hesitating, wanting to see for himself that Laura’s safe, but then he’s moving away from home.

 

The first thing he notices is a boy, half a mile away, fear clear on his face. Then he spots the cat, half of its body still hidden by the parked cars between him and them, and it’s only twenty yards in front of the teenager. The boy has a gun raised, but even from here it’s clear he’s shaking too much to get a good shot on the animal slowly stalking closer. The crack of the rifle echoes up the street but the shot goes wide and does little to deter the hungry cougar; its ears going flat and teeth exposed.

 

Time seems to speed up and slow down at the same time. In the space of a heartbeat he takes in everything – the vehicles parked around him and the buildings, the slight curve of the road and the glare of the wet pavement, even the angle of the setting sun and the speed of the wind.

 

Then he’s moving. He hurriedly pulls off his flannel over-shirt and wraps it around his fist, then punches through the window of the truck parked next to him. He pulls the rifle off the window rack and pulls back the bolt; the breach is empty, but a round falls into place from the loaded magazine when he replaces the bolt. Weapon in one hand he uses the other to brace against the side of the truck and propels himself up, jumping over the side to land in the bed.

 

He wouldn’t have consciously predicted the benefit of the height, but immediately he notices the glare’s diminished and he has an excellent line of sight down the scope-less barrel. The cougar is gathering its legs under itself, preparing for a strike. If he were to consider the moment before he pulled the trigger, he would say there’s no way the shot could strike true, that he’s aiming too far left. But in the moment, he doesn’t consider anything, just lets instinct take over as his finger tightens.

 

It’s a clean kill through the cervical spine, and the cougar drops mid pounce. He watches for a moment to ensure there’s no further movement and checks in on the teenager, who’s fallen to his knees and is vomiting into the grass but is otherwise fine.

 

Slowly he lowers the weapon, settling out of his shooting stance. The cold breaks through his concentration, and he registers the strength of the wind whipping around him as more than just a factor in the shot he took. He’d like to say it’s just the chill that has him shaking.

 

There’s a man approaching the boy now, helping him up and then they are both looking around as if to see where the shot came from. He’s suddenly very much aware that they won’t be able to see him, that the distance is too far. He’d never really thought about the strength of his vision before, never had a reason to consider how unusual it is; fear starts flooding through him as he considers the potential repercussions of this action.

 

Jumping back to the pavement below, he uses his discarded shirt to wipe down the stock and barrel, careful to reengage the safety before wiping off the trigger. He places the rifle on the back seat of the pickup, grateful that the few people starting to return to the streets are so far focused on the pair up the street and the downed cougar.

 

All except Dave, who he finds starring at him when he turns, a guarded look on the other man’s face. “You military?”

 

He shrugs, “I don’t talk about it.” Not a denial, but certainly not an invitation to ask.

 

Dave still seems unsure but slowly nods, and doesn’t move to stop his retreat back to the diner. The relief when he sees Laura standing outside looking for him isn’t quite enough to shake the dread that’s taken hold in the bottom of his stomach. It’s hard to find comfort in her embrace when he can’t help but remember the look on Dave’s face, the uncharacteristic hesitancy and touch of fear, trying to explain something that shouldn’t have been possible.

 

He wonders if maybe there was truth to his answer, that maybe he learned to shoot with the military, but he’s not sure he’s ready to know what he did with the skill. And he’s certain he doesn’t want to take the risk that seeking answers to those questions might bring more danger, if not to him, then to Laura and the kids. Whoever he had been, they don’t deserve to be hurt because they let him into their lives.

 

 

***

 

The anxiety that settles over him is fairly profound. He’d been surprised when Dave, obligated by his job with the parks service to report the circumstances of the killed cougar, had omitted the name of the shooter. The local paper prints about the event, but without a name simply refer to him as a Good Samaritan, and it’s the talk of the town for the next week.

 

He’s told Laura the truth, of course. Initially she encouraged him to take credit for the kill, but she’d quickly recognized how distraught he was, even if she didn’t really understand how deeply the dread had settled in. While he may not regret taking the shot and saving a life, it feels like he’s just lit a beacon to anyone looking for him. There’s no way to know for sure – his memory still begins and ends in the AIM facility – but like the rest of his instincts he trusts this one.

 

The main talk in the diner revolves around the mysterious hero, their words not his, for the next week before things start to die down and mostly go back to normal. His anxiety persists for weeks longer. He spends more nights in the diner than not over that time, and while Laura tries to be supportive he knows she doesn’t really understand his need to separate himself. Hell, he doesn’t even understand it, and yet he’s overtaken by the need for vigilance like he hasn’t experienced since he was on the run in those early days. He checks behind him and doubles back down streets when he goes out; only uses the front door to the diner and leaves the chair pressed against the doorknob of his back door at all times. He avoids the house, lest someone follow him there, follows him to Laura and the kids.

 

Laura hides the hurt and they’re able to keep the kids distracted. Cooper’s busy with baseball practice after school, and when Lila complains that he doesn’t play with her anymore he brings her into the kitchen to help make pies. He even buys her a pink apron to protect her clothes as she delights in throwing handfuls of flour on the board for him to roll out the dough, though he suspects her favorite part is helping to “clean” the sweet fillings from the spoons and bowls.

 

Slowly the constant tension in his spine eases, but it’s still over a month before he feels the threat is past. Eventually he gives in to the constant invites, joining Laura and Lila on a picnic to watch a baseball game one sunny afternoon in June. Sitting in the sunshine laughing and eating and cheering, he feels content and whole for the first time in a long while. He glances beside him when the players change, thinks how beautiful and kind and smart and wonderful this woman is as she leans back on her hands, legs crossed in front of her on the blanket they’ve spread on the grass.

 

Without allowing himself to second guess, to pause, he reaches out to rest his hand on hers, letting her see him smile when she gazes at him in question. And he doesn’t hesitate at all when she turns to him at the end of the game and says, “Let’s go home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone still reading this fic! Just a little note that I am going to try to do another double post today/tomorrow, but after that I may be quiet for about a week - flying across country to attend a conference and then taking an exam (like one of those life defining, worked for years type things...)
> 
> Anyway, if I get a chance to I'll post while I'm away but just in case things get even crazier than I already expect, here's my apology ahead of time!

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Three knocks sound sharp and loud against the back of the van, but Phil doesn’t thumb the safety back on until the door opens to reveal Maria. She climbs in and takes the chair beside him, setting the cardboard coffee carrier on the desk between them.

 

“Dark roast, one cream, one sugar,” she says as she hands him one of the cups and a pastry bag.

 

Even with the late hour it is unseasonably cold for June, so when Maria had offered to make a coffee run Phil agreed readily. They are running surveillance from the back of a van, converted with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment including the bank of computers and monitors along one wall, but no heat without running the engine. As that would be suspicious, they’re making due with coffee and the thermal blankets from the first aid kit.

 

After double checking the monitors to make sure nothing has changed, Maria settles back with her cup and croissant. “How can someone who talks such a big game be so insufferably boring?”

 

Phil hums his agreement. They’ve been here for nearly 4 days, alternating in 12-hour shifts with another team of agents. She isn’t wrong; it’s mind numbing, especially when he’s already managed to blow through his backlog of work over the last three days.

 

“I mean seriously, the least he could do is have better taste in TV. Who watches this crap? I always thought this was good to set you off to sleep but he hasn’t even yawned, the bastard.” She points at the screen with her toe, scoffing. “You think it’s a ruse? Like he replaced himself with a robot?”

 

Phil glances at her out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t add to the conversation. Both because it’s ridiculous and because Maria never talks this much. He’s beginning to wonder if someone drugged her coffee.

 

“If I was trading millions in illegal tech you’d better believe I wouldn’t be hanging out on the couch alone in the dark. I mean, tracking these idiots when they go clubbing is a hassle but I’d welcome the headache about now.” She pauses and tilts her head, resolutely keeping her eyes ahead of her. “I like to think I’d be more creative with that kind of money though, like I’d rent out the top of the Empire State Building or an entire theme park. What do you think, Phil, Harry Potter World, SHIELD edition?”

 

He gives up on trying to be covert and flat out stares at her, eye brow quirked in question and mouth held in a flat line. He isn’t sure what game she’s playing but it’s setting him on edge.

 

“Seriously, Phil, when this is done what are your plans for, say, next Saturday night?”

 

Ah, that’s it, then.

 

“Maria,” he sighs, turning back to the screen. “Leave it alone.” He knows they mean well but his friends have been pushing hard the last few weeks to get him to go out.

 

She turns towards him but can’t meet his eyes. “Well if you aren’t doing anything else, come over to our place. Just a small group of us, games and drinks.”

 

“How small?” he asks, though he has a guess already.

 

“The usual: you, Jasper and I, Nick, one of Jasper’s friends.” Maria’s an outstanding agent, but she’s always been pathetically transparent.

 

“One of Jasper’s friends who’s gay and single, I would suspect?” He tries to sound annoyed but he’s pretty sure it just comes out tired. Having been caught, she dips her head, but he continues before she can say anything. “Tell Jasper I appreciate his efforts, but I’m not interested.”

 

“You don’t have to stop living just because he’s dea—“

 

“DON’T,” he interrupts, then blows out a breath. “Maria, please, just don’t. You’re a good friend, and I know you’re trying to help but I’m not ready.”

 

She studies him for a minute before asking, “Ready for which part?”

 

His short laugh has no mirth to it. “Neither, I suppose. I know the odds as well as anyone else, know Clin--” He breathes deep. “I know. Just… let me work through this on my own.”

 

She nods once and turns back to the monitors, “When you’re ready, then. We do miss you, you know.”

 

He studies her for a moment and thinks how unusual this is for her, to willingly enter a conversation likely to be fraught with emotional hurdles. “I know I’ve been distracted lately. Maybe if there was no plus one…”

 

She waves off his apology. “Saturday at 7. Jasper says you’re bringing the snacks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	13. Chapter 13

 

Chapter 13

 

It’s another one of those perfect days that he’s still sure he never did enough to deserve. It’s warm and sunny, a day before Independence Day, and by scheduling themselves off they have two full days away from the diner. They watch Cooper playing baseball with his summer league team, enjoy another picnic and Lila wears herself out throwing a ball for Max. Cooper is all smiles and gives him a high five when he joins them after the last game.

 

“Did you see that throw?! I did that thing you taught me, with my wrist and shoulder. Even Billy asked me how I did it!”

 

He laughs, “I saw, buddy! And your double in the bottom of the sixth? Clutch!”

 

They talk baseball on the walk home until Cooper tires of it and rushes forward to join Max and Lila. And when Laura slides a hand into his he pulls her closer instead, wrapping an arm around her shoulders while she slides an arm around his waist.

 

For dinner he grills hamburgers and hot dogs and they eat outside in the backyard. He has the kids help find enough rocks to build a fire pit and surprises them with supplies to make S’mores (he can’t recall ever having one of these sandwiches in his life, but the cashier at the store recommended them and Laura seems to understand the particulars). The sun sets, and they spray themselves with bug spray and he pulls on a sweatshirt over his sunburn.

 

It’s well past dark and bed time when the fireworks start, brilliant lights in the sky, and they all “oh” and “ah” at the beautiful display. Afterwards Lila falls asleep on his lap and Cooper barely shakes himself awake to take himself inside to bed. The fire has nearly burned down when he goes to take a still-sleeping Lila to bed while Laura puts out the embers.

 

He really should have put on a light, because three feet from her bed his foot finds something small, hard, and painful, causing him to limp the last steps. Of course this wakes the sleeping girl, which is how he finds himself sitting on her bed reading aloud from her current favorite book while she burrows under the covers amongst a zoo of stuffed animals _._ She starts to yawn halfway through, and by the time he’s closing the book she’s sound asleep.

 

Carefully he shifts to standing, pausing for a moment once he has found his feet to ensure she’s still sleeping. Then he finds the Lego he stepped on, turns on the night light and shuts off the lamp. Backing out of the room he pauses to watch her peaceful face before shutting the door completely.

 

He finds Laura in the hall, watching him with a tender look on her face and a fire in her eyes. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, deep and passionate and long. When she pulls away at last it’s to take his hand in hers, a shy smile on her reddened lips as she leads him to her bedroom.

 

***

 

He makes sure to be awake, dressed, and in the kitchen brewing coffee and rolling out cinnamon rolls the next morning before the kids wake up. He even piles a pillow and blanket in the usual place on the couch where he’s slept before.

 

Lila is the first to wake so he makes her hot chocolate and joins her for cartoons on the living room floor while the rolls rise. Laura finds them shortly after and settles on the couch behind him, one hand playing with the short hairs at the back of his head while the other cradles a cup of coffee.

 

It’s another day he doesn’t deserve, and so of course it goes to hell quickly.

 

When the cinnamon rolls are nearly done and the sweet smell permeates the small house, Cooper finally stumbles from his bedroom, dressed but hair still sticking up on one side. They eat together at the dining room table, laughing and joking and licking the sweet frosting from their fingers.

 

After breakfast Laura excuses herself to start laundry, so he and the kids work together to clear the table and clean the kitchen. He’s washing dishes with Lila on her stool next to him at the sink. While he’s rinsing the last of the plates she’s mostly playing with the bubbles, making piles and blowing them away.

 

He stacks the last dish in front of Cooper to dry and turns back, scooping a big pile of bubbles into his hands and applying them to his lower face and chin in a soapy white beard. Lila nearly falls off her stool laughing at him, “You look like an old man!”

 

He huffs at her and blows the bubbles away, turning to look at her in mock hurt. “Who you calling old, huh?” His fingers descend to tickle along her stomach and arms, and she squirms and giggles.

 

“Stop it, Daddy!”

 

She’s giggling so much she can hardly get the words out, but even her laughter dies quickly when he stops in shock, fingers reaching towards her but frozen. There’s a terrible crash and something sharp strikes his right ankle, but he hardly notices, at least until he hears a yell.

 

“Don’t! Don’t say that, we don’t have a dad! He’s dead!”

 

By the time he turns Cooper’s already rushing from the room. He tries to follow but stops when glass pierces his foot and he hops to a stop with a curse.

 

Laura returns just as the front door slams shut, looking bewildered between the mess on the floor, the blood dripping from his foot, Max barking at the front door and Lila just starting to cry next to him.

 

Laura goes to Lila first, pulling the girl close to her chest where she babbles near incoherent apologies and fat tears slide down her cheeks. “Shh, baby, shh. It’s ok, everything’s alright. It’s ok.” She shoots a concerned look his way but he waves her off, gesturing for them to go.

 

While she takes Lila out through the dining room he slides down to sit on the stool and inspects his foot. There’s a single large shard of ceramic embedded between his second and third toes, so he grits his teeth and pulls, using the discarded dishtowel to press against the now-empty wound. Holding the towel tightly against his foot he’s careful not to examine any of the thoughts racing through his brain too closely, instead focusing on the task at hand.

 

First, stop bleeding. Next a broom and pan to sweep up the broken plate. He drains the sink and finishes cleaning up from breakfast, taking his time before limping into the living room. Laura’s still cradling Lila against her chest, but the girl’s tears have dried where she hiccups into her mom’s shoulder.

 

He leans over the back of the couch to rest a gentle hand on Lila’s head and presses a kiss to her hair, whispering into her ear. He says he isn’t mad and she didn’t do anything wrong. Louder he adds that he’s going to find Cooper, squeezing Laura’s shoulder as he goes.

 

***

 

Maybe it’s because he can’t remember his own childhood years, maybe it’s because his own instincts would drive him to a high place, or maybe it’s because he just has no idea what he’s doing with kids, but it takes him nearly an hour to find Cooper. He finally finds him on the deserted playground of the elementary school, hiding in the tower at the top of the slide with his knees pulled up to his chest and chin resting on his knobby knees.

 

It’s a squeeze for him to get inside the plastic enclosure, mirroring Cooper’s position and thankful for the respite on his aching foot. It’s warm here in the yellow tinted shade from the sun shining through the coned roof. Silence grows between them while he tries to think of what to say, but with no experience to draw on, no understanding of the love between a son and his father, he is falling pathetically short.

 

“It’s not fair,” Cooper mumbles into his arms. “I don’t want a new dad.”

 

The initial relief of hearing Cooper start to open up is quickly dashed, because he doesn’t even know where to start with that one. It isn’t fair, that’s true. He isn’t trying to replace anyone, let alone someone he never knew. That he’s sorry, that he wishes Cooper still had his dad and that Lila could know him too. So many thoughts and yet what comes out of his mouth surprises even him.

 

“I can’t remember my dad, not even the tiniest thing about him. Seems pretty bad, growing up without a dad and no idea what kind of man he was, the kind of man he’d want me to be. Thought that was the worst thing.” He sighs and tries to stretch his legs a little, cramps setting in. “Your sister isn’t trying to hurt you, and she isn’t trying to replace your dad. She just doesn’t understand what it is to love someone so much and to miss them every day.”

 

“I know.” Cooper draws the word out, pulling his shoulders down and knees closer. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad and yelled.”

 

“You shouldn’t have yelled, but I’m not going to tell you that you can’t get mad about it. You’re right, it’s not fair that he died. Be mad about that. Just try not to take it out on your sister. She’s one of the people you have left.” Cooper nods, looking miserable. “You know, I may not know how you feel, but I know what it feels like to want a friend. Think we could start there?”

 

The boy shrugs but he finally loosens his grip on his knees, resting his back against the plastic wall instead of bent forward. “Not like I have much choice if you’re going to move in.”

 

“What?” He thinks he did a good job of keeping the shock out of his voice.

 

Cooper shrugs again, “Mom told us she was going to ask you weeks ago.”

 

He clears his throat, trying to swallow his surprise before responding. “I don’t have to, it can wait as long as you need.”

 

Do boys have any other expression than a shrug? “I already told mom it’s ok. She’s happy when you’re around.” He ducks his head in a failed attempt to hide his flaming cheeks. “And maybe we could try that friend thing?”

 

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” Silence spreads between them again but it’s much more comfortable, and after a few minutes Cooper unfolds and moves to leave. It takes him much longer to follow the boy out, limbs stiff and cramped from the small space and tense conversation.

 

The walk back is slow and quiet. Cooper apologizes again when he notices the limp, but he waves the boy off.

 

“Do you think mom and Lila are really mad at me?”

 

“Not even a little bit, just worried. I’m sure your mom won’t be happy you went off on your own, but not mad.” He assures him.

 

“I’ll bet she grounds me.”

 

“Nah, I’ll talk to her. We all need to sit down and talk, I think, but there’s no reason for anyone to get in trouble.”

 

Cooper turns to him with a suspicious look, “You’d do that?”

 

“Sure,” he bumps the boy’s shoulder as they walk, “that’s what friends are for.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

Chapter 14

 

Exactly one year after the official end of the investigation into Clint’s disappearance, Phil takes off his wedding band for the first time when not on mission. By early afternoon he gets blisteringly drunk and collects all the pictures of Clint in the house, lining them up in front of himself on the coffee table. After gathering his liquid courage, he stacks them into a large file box and hides it in the back of the closet in the spare bedroom. Then he drinks the rest of the whiskey and at some point, passes out on the couch.

 

He wakes to a slamming sound and it takes him more than a minute to realize it’s not the pounding between his temples that’s reaching his ears. Someone has drawn the blinds, and while he’s sure he doesn’t deserve that consideration he is thankful as even the dim sunlight coming through makes him wish for sunglasses. By some miracle he manages to make it to the bathroom to relieve his very full bladder, brush the death out of his mouth, and then stumble into the kitchen.

 

He isn’t surprised to find Natasha still slamming cupboards and drawers. She knows where everything is of course, but whether her searching is due to distraction or she’s just punishing him with all the noise he can’t be sure. She’s laid out a glass of water and handful of Tylenol, and by the time he’s swallowed them both she’s handing him a mug of coffee, doctored as he prefers.

 

He feels slightly more human after a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, prepared by his silent and very clearly pissed friend. She waits for him to lay down his fork and push away his plate before speaking.

 

“I won’t watch you drown yourself.” It’s a challenge, and he knows it.

 

“It won’t be a problem. A one-time thing.” He doesn’t make declarations of promise, knowing she’ll only believe action.

 

She’s staring at his naked finger, and he shifts his hand into his lap.

 

“You’re a fool if you think putting him in a box will make you forget.” Of course she noticed the missing pictures.

 

He sighs, but there isn’t anything he can say to that. She’s right and yet he’s so tired of the daily reminders, of the shame he continues to feel when he has to admit that he couldn’t find Clint, couldn’t bring him home.

 

Natasha scoffs and stands, putting the dishes in the sink for him to deal with later. She turns to him with a look dangerously close to pity. “I hope you figure it out.” Then she leaves, a square object in her hands. Phil knows without seeing the side pressed against her flank that it’s the picture of Clint and him at their wedding, holding each other close and smiling like fools.

 

***

 

The empty spots on the walls and on his finger don’t lessen the pain or the reminders, they just highlight the empty spaces where Clint should be. Two days later he feels only relief when he slides the band back into place and spends the night studying the pictures lining the coffee table in front of him before returning them to their places.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry so short! There a few more of these shorter chapters then they tend to be a bit longer.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, hopefully next chapter up tomorrow. Short one today, next one will be longer.

 

Chapter 15

 

He does move in, slowly and over a number of weeks. It’s not smooth at first, happening in fits and starts until finally he finds himself tucked in beside Laura each night. Lila was the first to embrace the change, but eventually even Cooper loses his defensive edge. Despite the challenges, by the time school starts again he’s given up the room at the diner for good.

 

It’s almost exactly a year after he came to this small town, and while he still feels that drive to leave at times, to not settle roots too deep, he knows it’s already too late. He would find it hard to leave this family at all, let alone leave them behind if trouble comes knocking; he’s too well incorporated in this town and family, and if anyone is looking for him, just leaving won’t be enough to keep them safe anymore. Instead he’s done what he can to prepare – there are three bags sitting next to his own in the back of the closet, each packed with the essentials for a few days and as much cash as he can spare each week, carefully counted and added to a side pocket. If Laura knows about the go-bags she says nothing.

 

Just as he’s been accepted into Laura’s home he’s been received by the town. Between the recovering business at the diner and his presence at most of Cooper’s baseball games he’s become just another fixture, another lost soul settling in. It also helps that he’s no longer the newest face.

 

Jenny’s a young woman from half the state away. He’d caught her trying to steal food from a stall at the farmer’s market. After taking in the dark sunglasses, the heavy application of makeup, and the way she pressed her left arm against her side he’d brought her to the diner.

 

Laura had been surprised at first, but after taking a long look at the woman and catching the stubborn set of his face, she’d given a wry smile and shook her head fondly, bringing a sandwich out to where he’d directed Jenny into a booth. He’d left them to it, watching as Laura’s motherly instinct took over and she had Jenny talking, even got her to crack a smile.

 

By the time the sandwich was gone, Laura had offered Jenny a job paid by three squares and the room in back; the only stipulation was that she go to the Sheriff’s office with a picture of the bastard and file a report. That afternoon he’d attached a lock onto the door leading to the back room, because Laura’s protective and generous but not naïve, and then handed Jenny the key to the outside door from the back alley. She’d been surprised and overwhelmed, like she expected a trap but was too desperate to turn away the offer.

 

Jenny’s a quick study in the front of house and never gives them a reason to doubt her, as thankful as she was desperate. In the weeks since her arrival, the bruises have healed and she’s managed to put on weight. The first time he found Jenny laughing in the kitchen with the teenagers he’d hardly believed she was the same person.

 

It hits him one Saturday afternoon just how comfortable he’s gotten. Absolutely nothing unusual happens, he’s grilling in the backyard while the kids play, and Laura casually asks what he thinks about redoing the patio next summer as she hands him a beer. He’s halfway through considering what modifications they could make when he realizes that he’s expecting to still be around, that however murky his past might be, his view of the future has grown to include Laura and the kids. Taking a sip from the cold bottle in his hand, he allows the contentedness to outweigh the fear. It hasn’t been easy to get to this point, but now it’s starting to feel like home.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
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	16. Chapter 16

 

 

Chapter 16

 

Phil’s tired and sore when he makes his way to the office after returning from a month-long op. It ended as well as can be expected, with few injuries and no casualties, but it was ugly in a way he’s not used to. Being added at the last minute to an op that’s already going south is nothing new for him, but this one was spectacularly FUBAR by the time he’d stepped off the Quinjet.

 

Scrambling to make up ground and achieve mission parameters had been a steep uphill battle with a less experienced team than he was accustomed to working with. He’d have to remember to recommend Nguyen for promotion, but the rest of the team he was going to assign to repeat 101 classes in espionage and undercover work.

 

So it’s not in the best of moods that he sits down at his desk loaded high with weeks’ worth of paperwork. He manages to cut the pile in more than half by lunchtime, focusing first on the papers just needing his signature or a rejection stamp. He moves on through the mission reports filed for other ops he’s been peripherally involved in: making another dent in the pile after carefully updating his records, making notations, and emailing the principal agent for clarification or recommendations as needed.

 

It’s well past dark by the time he decides to leave the rest for tomorrow, glad he’d been able to keep up with his email at least while on mission. Shuffling the remaining stack of files and loose papers into a neat pile, he’s surprised when a slip of paper slides out from the bottom, something missed when he’d first gone through the stack and sorted it by urgency.

 

It’s a magazine page cut out and folded in half. On the other side there’s an article from what appears to be a hunting magazine, the picture of a snarling mountain lion looking up at him. A post-it note is covering the title of the article, an unfamiliar scrawl declaring “ _I only knew one man who could make a shot like this. Thought you might be interested. – ‘Ace’ Johnson_.”

 

Ace is the veteran range master and has the expertise to make that kind of declaration. Phil sits back heavily in his chair and rereads the words twice, heart pounding in his ears, trying desperately to hold back the burgeoning pressure behind his breast bone that feels suspiciously like hope.

 

The article is titled _A Shot on a Prayer_ , and is about a mountain lion that was killed mid attack on a young man. While the prospect of a cougar attack is lurid enough, this article actually focuses on the unnamed hero of the day who brought down the animal. According to the commentary, the shot was made from half a mile away without a sighting scope. A parks officer named David Lewis had confirmed the kill, stating it was a desperate shot to save a life, and the shooter chose to remain anonymous. The article goes on with statistics of cougar attacks, including that there have been fewer than a dozen fatal attacks in North America in the last thirty years and that the animals are unlikely to attack unless provoked.

 

But Phil’s still stuck on an impossible shot from an impossible distance. The thought running through his head is equally impossible and he tries to stamp down hard on the flutter in his chest but knows it’s a lost battle. The possibility that the unnamed shooter is Clint is far-fetched, bordering on ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop his heart from seizing onto the hope with reckless abandon.

 

Plans are forming in his mind while he studies the paper. He’ll need to perform a risk assessment, search the databases for threats in the area, and requisition travel. Pushing aside the stack on his desk, he pulls out the appropriate forms and starts filling them in. He’s pretty sure he can swing it as a recruitment trip – given that SHIELD’s down a sniper these days.

 

***

 

The weather is almost unseasonably warm when Phil exits his rental car. It’s been a week since he found that article, and despite rather exhaustive research he hasn’t found much information about the mysterious shooter. Unfortunately the lack of intel has burgeoned his hope rather than deflate it, leaving him open for a renewal of the heartbreak that’s just now losing some of its sharpness. Even Nick had felt the need to try to curb Phil’s uncharacteristic optimism when they’d discussed the mission, shaking his head gravely and emphasizing the goal of the mission was to recruit a new asset to SHIELD.

 

But now, standing here in the bright sun Phil’s finding it hard to remember the heartache, instead taking in a breath of fresh air and looking around the quaint streets. The leaves have begun to turn, bright splotches of color scattered throughout. The stores have clearly seen better days, but everything is clean and well cared for, speaking to the pride these types of towns can have. There’s a banner being hung in the park next to what looks like a post office, advertising for the first annual Fall Festival to take place two days from now.

 

A few people turn to look at him as they pass, but he simply gives his bland smile and a respectful nod.

 

Taking his bag from the back seat and locking the car, he heads towards the only lodging in town. The elderly woman at the desk engages him in friendly chatter while searching for his reservation, talking about the work everyone’s putting in for the Fall Festival while she thumbs through a date book to find today’s date and his name.

 

He doesn’t indicate he recognizes the names she rattles off during her idle nattering, feigning polite interest while comparing her gossip to his recent research to determine if any of the information is strategically useful.

 

In the back of his mind he wonders what it would be like to take an actual vacation. He supposes this is the most like one he’ll get, what with this trip already being a break from reality as he indulges in the last dregs of hope to chase a man who’s been presumed dead for over a year.

 

When she starts to absentmindedly repeat herself he finds a polite way to excuse himself to his room, which he finds to be comfortable without being too big. After securing the space and unpacking he sits down at the desk with his laptop open. Using the secure satellite uplink to check and clear his email, he’s disappointed but not surprised to see nothing from Natasha. He’d tried to contact her before leaving, but she’s on mission and unlikely to be available for days yet.

 

It’s mid afternoon by the time he finishes. His meeting with the Parks Department employee is scheduled for the next day, so he decides to explore for a bit and have an early dinner. He considers changing out of his suit but decides against it, figuring if he needs to do some recon the professional look may be better.

 

To make himself appear more approachable he takes off the tie before unbuttoning the top two buttons of his blue button down, leaving his jacket where it’s draped over the back of the chair. Studying his appearance in the mirror he finds an unremarkable, non-threatening, middle-aged man staring back at him. It’s a look he’s perfected.

 

Waving to the woman at the desk he steps back out into the sunshine and turns left, taking time to explore. The antiques store is his favorite, full of interesting finds unique to small towns – farm ware and kitchenware and furniture. There’s even a section devoted to collector cards, though predominantly baseball and none of the familiar red, white, and blue he can’t stop himself looking for.

 

Close behind is the second-hand book store where the proprietor had followed him around like a hawk until they’d struck up a conversation about period fiction, mainly WWII era. The shopkeeper’s suspicious air drops quickly as he points out books he feels have particular merit. Phil can’t help but find amusement in the irony of this man going on about spy novels, but he enjoys the conversation nonetheless.

 

By the time he manages to politely excuse himself his stomach is reminding him that he’d only eaten a protein bar this morning, and he heads to the diner. Stepping in, he immediately falls in love with the authentic charm of the small space, and takes his time looking around while he makes his way onto the last stool at the counter.

 

Being the somewhat awkward time between lunch and dinner, he’s surprised to see most of the tables still full. A blond waitress is flitting amongst the occupied tables, taking orders and dropping off plates and drinks. Looking through a large open window into the kitchen he can see a young man, head bobbing to unheard music presumably coming from the ear bud tucked into one ear as he stands at the stove with a spatula in hand. Phil lets himself grin when the man strikes a pose, hand over his head, silently lip syncing into the end of the kitchen utensil like it’s a microphone.

 

He stops his study of the kitchen when the waitress approaches, bringing him a glass of water and a menu. “Special today is spaghetti Bolognese, and the blueberry pie is made with local fruit. Can I get you something else to drink?”

 

“Water is fine, thank you.” He smiles and she nods as she hurries away, going through the swinging door into the kitchen. He watches through the window when she approaches the cook, tearing an order slip from the pad in her hand and hanging it with the others.

 

“Brian, you seen Jimmy?” The man, presumably Brian, finishes putting together the dishes in front of him before turning to her, holding out the plates.

 

“Well done is this one,” he says in a louder voice than necessary, probably due to the ear bud still tucked into his ear. “He was going to pick up supplies to make the pies tonight, should be back any minute.”

 

“If you see him before I do, tell him I could use some help out front.”

 

With another glance around the space Phil lets their conversation fade out of focus. The promised pie sits enticingly in a glass dome down the counter, but he convinces himself that he needs real food before indulging in the treat.

 

Taking a sip of water, he picks up the menu in front of him, letting the sounds of the diner fade into background noise. He’s still trying to decide between the special and the chicken pot pie when the phone in his pocket goes off.

 

Frowning, he opens the messaging app to find a long text message chain from Jasper. Halfway through he’s pretty Jasper’s colorful rant about the junior agents is meant to serve as both a distraction and a lifeline, an offer of support without outright asking if he needs it. Phil is oddly touched by the gesture, and definitely annoyed by the antics Jasper’s describing.

 

He’s trying to figure out how to respond when the world stops.

 

“Can I get something started for you?” Phil’s stomach drops to his shoes and lodges in his throat at the same time. He recognizes that voice, the deep tone and casual vowels. He isn’t capable of keeping the shock from his face as he looks up into eyes he’d never truly believed he would see again outside of pictures.

 

Clint. Clint alive. Clint alive and talking to him. Clint alive and hair longer than he usually likes but still sticking up in the front. Clint alive and smiling, complete with the deepening of laugh lines around his mouth and little crow’s feet, but not a shred of recognition in his gaze.

 

Phil’s only dimly aware of a muted thump as his phone finds the floor beneath his stool. The friendly smile drops into something a bit more apologetic, “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Phil stares a second longer before he finally gathers himself, closing his mouth and sliding off the stool to stand.

 

“No, no it was my fault. Got distracted by the phone.” He bends down to retrieve said object, hiding below the counter longer than necessary to collect himself and try to rein in his racing heart and thoughts. He digs into his reserves for Agent Coulson’s unflappable calm while taking his seat once more. “Sorry, what did you say your name was again?” he asks and holds his hand out.

 

Clint hesitates for a moment, but eventually grasps his hand in a firm shake, “Not sure I said, but everyone round here calls me Jimmy.” He holds on a little longer than natural, a slightly perplexed look on his face before he gives his head a little shake. “How about I give you a few more minutes and I’ll be right back?”

 

Phil’s heart is beating wildly in his chest as he sits watching Clint walk away. He has no idea what’s going on here. Clint’s alive, living as a waiter in a small-town diner in the proverbial middle of nowhere. ‘Jimmy’ is oddly familiar, and Phil is nearly certain that was the nickname of one of Clint’s alias’ on a long-ago op. If he’s adopted an old pseudonym it would stand to reason that he’s treating this like a long-term undercover mission, with his disappearance and rumored death perfect to allow for infiltration.

 

But even as he thinks it Phil dismisses the idea – he’s certain Clint wouldn’t do that to him, would have found some way to let his husband know he was alive. There’d been no recognition in those magnificent kaleidoscope eyes, though he knows Clint’s particularly good at undercover so it’s possible, however unlikely, that Clint is maintaining a cover.

 

He tries to be as discreet as possible watching Clint move around the diner, in and out of the kitchen and talking with other customers down the counter. As he watches he notices other changes in the archer – while still muscular, his shoulders and back are much more lean than when he’d disappeared.

 

There’s also the way he interacts with the room and people around him, at ease in a way Phil hasn’t seen him be outside of Strike Team Delta. It’s possible it’s just an act like he’s watched Clint manage on countless ops, but the knot growing in his stomach suspects this isn’t quite that simple.

 

By the time Clint comes back, Phil’s barely gotten his emotions under control. His heart is still trying to find a way out of his chest and he’s pretty sure it’s not hunger gnawing at his stomach anymore, but he still manages to keep his face carefully blank when Clint approaches.

 

“Got a hold of that phone?” Clint asks as he leans across the counter, hands folded together in front of him.

 

Phil gives a chagrined look and nods, “I don’t usually startle that easily, but thankfully this phone is nearly indestructible compared to my old blackberry.” Clint doesn’t even blink, just gives a little laugh.

 

“Wouldn’t know, easiest to avoid breaking a phone if you don’t have one.” He shrugs, bright, intelligent eyes studying Phil. He seems to see something of interest, because his gaze softens minutely and he asks, “So what brings you to this little corner of the world?”

 

“Heard this was the best place to watch the eclipse.” Phil deadpans, but when Clint gives him a confused look and doesn’t say anything he waves a hand like he was joking all along. “Nah, wish it was that simple. My great aunt passed, and I came to settle her estate. Unfortunately the lawyers are still working on some red tape and told me to get a room for a few days. Turns out this is the closest town with a hotel so here I am, waiting for the green light to head home.” He gives a shrug and breaks eye contact for a moment, the perfect picture of a relative trying to hide the grief of a recent loss. Given the situation, it may actually come across a little too heavy as his real heartache briefly shines through.

 

Phil waves off the other man’s attempts at condolences, and doesn’t have to fake the slightly choked quality of his voice when he adds, “I’m glad for the time we shared.”

 

Clint ducks his head for a moment, whether in sympathy or embarrassment it’s unclear. But when he starts to look up again his head stops, eyes fixed on the wedding band around Phil’s finger. “You’re here alone?”

 

Phil has to swallow the lump in his throat before he can answer. For some reason, despite already knowing Clint doesn’t recognize him, the thought of Clint not being able to appreciate that symbol of what they meant to each other is just too much, and he finds himself sliding his right hand over the left to hide the ring. When Clint looks up, Phil gives a self-conscious grimace and is surprised his voice doesn’t shake when he responds, “It’s complicated.”

 

Clint straightens up in a hurry, tapping a finger on the counter in a subtle show of embarrassment. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. So what can I get you, --?” The end of the sentence carries on.

 

“Phil,” he answers the unspoken question. His appetite has deserted him but he still says, “and I’ll take the special.”

 

Phil’s glad that Clint has already turned away before throwing a parting, “Coming right up, boss,” over his shoulder.

 

There’s no way to hide the devastation on his face hearing that old nickname. Ducking his head Phil pulls out his phone as an excuse to hide, struggling to pull in even breaths. He’s heard Clint say it a thousand times before, usually in a sarcastic tone but with an affectionate gleam in his eyes meant only for Phil. It’d started even before they got together but evolved as time went on; it became Clint’s way of expressing fondness despite their no PDA at work rule.  

 

But now there is no gleam, no fondness. Just a waiter acknowledging an order.

 

After much longer than he’s comfortable with he manages to get himself under control and turns his attention back to the rest of their exchange. It’s painfully clear that Clint doesn’t know him, and there’d been no acknowledgement of the code phrases worked into the conversation – eclipse to ask if Clint’s undercover, red and green to assess the situation, even asking if he needed to go black to maintain cover. He wonders if “Jimmy” knows that he had another life before this or if he thinks this is where he’s always been.

 

The mystery and drive for answers helps him steady himself until he’s able to look up and around again, eyes tracking Clint’s movements throughout the restaurant. After helping to turn over some of the recently emptied tables, Clint’s returned to the kitchen. He pulls out a huge bowl and sets it on the counter, stacking ingredients and measuring cups next to it. Oddly, he pulls out a step stool and puts it on the floor in front of the bowl on the counter. Once Clint seems satisfied he turns aside, leaving the supplies where they are and turns his attention to helping the cook.

 

Occasionally Phil catches Clint glancing out through the kitchen window, but it’s always so quick he can’t be sure if Clint’s looking at him or just checking the dining room in general, which is a lot less crowded now than when he’d come in. Eventually Phil makes himself stop watching, the uncertainty mixing with the doubt to make a suffocating cloak of depression.

 

The door opens to admit a young girl holding hands with a woman who is clearly her mother. Though the woman greets the people at some of the tables, the girl is impatient and pulling her further into the diner, eventually managing to direct them into the kitchen. As soon as the door swings inward Clint’s looking up and, when he spots them, his face lights up in a brilliant smile.

 

“Hey sweetheart! Ready to help me make some pies?” He wipes his hands quickly on a towel, and Phil can see the girl and her mother approaching Clint. When they are close enough he swings the girl up in his arms and settles her on his hip.

 

The girl giggles with delight and wraps her arms around his neck. Phil’s still staring, now-empty fork raised halfway to his open mouth as the woman catches up to Clint and the girl. There’s happiness in her face that he can see mirrored in Clint’s, a contentment that can’t be faked. When they lean towards each other and their lips meet in a chaste kiss, Phil’s certain that the vacuum made by his evacuated heart will swallow him whole.

 

He manages to hit his plate when the spoon falls from his hand, and he tears his gaze away from the… family, is the only word he can think of to describe what he’s seen, and never before would he think that word could hold so much bitterness.

 

He pushes his plate away and braces his elbows on the counter, pressing his mouth into the palm of one hand as he tries not to let the emotions streaming through him show. Anger, fear, and bitterness combine into a maelstrom of devastation.

 

Somehow he’s able to respond to the waitress when she returns, and he asks for his check. While he waits he makes the mistake of glancing into the kitchen where Clint and the girl are both wearing aprons, one purple and one pink, sleeves rolled up and flour dusting their hands as they mix ingredients in that massive bowl. Clint’s always had an innate instinct for knowing he’s being watched, so of course he looks up and meets Phil’s eyes, grin shining with happiness and he gives a little nod in Phil’s direction.

 

After that Phil refuses to look away from his phone while waiting for his change, and then avoids looking up as he tucks the bills in his wallet.

 

But when he stands, he can’t stop himself from looking one last time, feeling his broken heart give a painful thump when he catches sight of Clint laughing, head back in humor and happiness as the girl giggles beside him.

 

Then Phil has to turn away, and tries to keep his pace to less of a run as he makes his escape.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> Author Responses
> 
> This author replies to comments. If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

Chapter 17

 

“What is it?” Laura whispers the words into the bare skin of his chest where they’re tucked into bed together. He could play dumb but he doesn’t want to. He already hides so much from her, some intentional and some because even he doesn’t know. He tries to be as open and honest with her as he can, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for him, especially this time when he’s still trying to figure out what’s bothering him.

 

“There was a guy tonight, sitting at the counter?” He feels her nod even though he’s sure she doesn’t know exactly who he’s talking about, and he pauses as he tries to find the words. Tries to explain how the world-weary, bland-appearing man had inexplicably drawn his attention, like a moth to the flame. “He just seemed so sad, so lonely. Like he’s carrying the weight of the world with no one to help him bear the load.”

 

She shifts and pulls back, looking him in the face and searching his eyes. “Sounds a little like you, a year ago?”

 

He sighs and thinks for a moment before answering with a drawn out, “Maybe,” not even convincing to himself. Dissatisfied with his answer, she pokes him playfully in the chest, but he wraps her hand in his to stop her from poking him again.

 

“I was alone, yes, but not lonely.” He shrugs, still struggling with expressing himself.

 

“Jimmy?” Sensing his distress she gentles, laying her hand against his cheek.

 

His skin heats uncomfortably and his limbs feel restless, like the physical manifestation of his unease, of being caught between his confusion and her concern. He slides out from under her and sits up with a sigh. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he leans forward to brace his elbows against his knees to stop them from bouncing, but he can’t do the same for his restless mind.

 

Laura’s hand settles tentatively on his bent back, unsure of her welcome and he feels like a jerk. Taking her hand, he pulls her arm around his shoulder and presses a kiss to her palm, reining in his anxiety and allowing her presence to sooth him, to center him.

 

He spends a moment gathering his thoughts, recalling the depth of emotion in that stranger’s eyes. The man had looked so lost, so desperately alone with an unbearable burden on his shoulders. He can almost feel it echo within himself, tapping into some instinctual level of empathy for another’s suffering.

 

“I can’t envision being happier than I am right now, with you and the kids and being together. But the way he looked tonight? I can’t even imagine loving someone like that, losing someone I loved that much.” He’s prepared for her to pull away from him, so is surprised when she drapes herself against him and rests her chin on his shoulder, one hand playing idly in hair at the back of his head.

 

“I think that’s something that doesn’t happen for everyone,” she says slowly, like she too needs to choose her words carefully. “You know, there are still times when I expect it to be Chris next to me when I wake up.”

 

His heart clenches in sympathy when she pauses, and he gives her hand a tight squeeze in support. She presses her forehead against his temple, taking a couple steadying breaths before continuing on.

 

“We grew up together, were attached at the hip since freshman year in high school, and losing him felt like I lost a part of myself. I was on the verge of losing my connection to Cooper and Lila before I learned how to work through it.” She wraps both arms around him, hugging him close.

 

“So maybe we can give each other a break and just be together and be happy about it, without having to lose ourselves?” She presses a kiss to his cheek and tightens her hold around him.

 

He lifts a hand to wrap around her forearm, returning as much of the embrace as he can from their positioning. “I’m sorry,” he offers softly.

 

“Don’t be. I’m happy for what we have. You’re an amazing person, kind and gentle and smart and generous. You’re incredible with Lila and Cooper, I can’t dream of someone being better with them.” She bites at his neck playfully, “You’re fantastic in bed, very… attentive.” He huffs a short laugh and some of the tension eases from the room. “I don’t need you to be in love with me to know you love me and the kids.”

 

She pulls him back into bed, sliding on top of him and resting her chin on her crossed arms. She’s smiling and there’s happiness in her eyes as she meets his. “And maybe I get to love you and be happy to be with you but still miss Chris every day. Think that’s possible?”

 

Wrapping his arms around her he pulls her into a deep kiss, trying to show his agreement without words before he adds, “I can live with that.”

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me... :)

 

Chapter 18

 

The moment his room door closes behind him, Phil begins throwing things into his bag haphazardly. His heart is pounding in his ears, and it’s surprising only because he’d have thought it was too shattered to beat. He has every intention of leaving immediately, as soon as he can pack and clear out. But when he lifts his briefcase, it’s to find he’d left it unfastened; the contents spill out over the desk and floor. Clint’s file lands right in front of his feet, the red MIA taunting him.

 

What follows is a less than dignified display of anger and grief and pain.

 

In his fit, he’s throwing anything he can reach, eventually grabbing up his bag. It flies across the room spilling its contents, including the box he’d stored at the bottom, small and black and almost left behind when he’d packed for this trip. Something so innocuous, and yet it halts him as effectively as a brick wall.

 

Running his fingers over the hard surface, he lifts it from the floor, anger fleeing to be replaced by a soul deep tiredness. Sitting on the bed with the box cradled between his hands, he stares at the unremarkable cover for a few moments before pressing his thumb against the lid and pushing up.

 

The cover pops open to expose a dark purple lining and a single ring nestled in place, glinting up at him in the low light. The band on his own finger feels heavier as he realizes it’s the first time he’s seen Clint’s wedding ring since his disappearance; he hasn’t had the courage to open the box, choosing to lay his ring on top when he left on a mission instead of placing it in the designated space next to its mate.

 

Letting out a sigh he hangs his head and thinks back over the afternoon, remembering the simple joys evident on Clint’s face; something he thought he’d never see again outside of dreams and pictures. Over the last year he would have given anything to see Clint again, one last time. He’d even been desperate to find a body just to end the uncertainty.

 

How could he possibly leave now? He doesn’t bother hoping that staying may somehow revert Clint, somehow restore his memory to become the husband he remembers. That can’t be his reason for staying, not without driving himself mad. So he sits and stares at the ring and contemplates the question: Could the heartache from seeing Clint happy with someone else be worse than thinking him dead?

 

A quietude settles over him, a peace within the storm. He doesn’t have an answer but he doesn’t need it right now, just needs to keep moving, one step at a time.

 

Setting the box aside he picks up the mess he created, then changes before heading to bed, bringing his StarkPad with him. For the next few hours he manages to distract himself from his emotional turmoil by reviewing the notes from the AIM facility raids, trying to apply this new information in some way.

 

It still doesn’t make sense; the tech was supposed to control someone, to take away their free will. As he reads over the scant information they were able to gather he finds it unlikely that anyone in AIM would have the goal of making the archer hide as a cook in a small town in Wyoming. Instead of mind control it seems they’d only managed amnesia, though whether it’s an intentional outcome or a side-effect of whatever they’d done to Clint is unclear.

 

By the time he sets aside the tablet, it’s late. His eyes itch with fatigue but he finds himself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep as his mind races. He’s infamous for his ability to plan, to consider each contingency and adapt to it. There’s no real precedent for a situation like this, but still he falls back on what he knows, shutting away his emotions and treating it like another mission.

 

First he needs to know more about how Clint ended up here and when; how he came to stay, how he came to become part of a family. At some point he’ll have to inform Nick of what he’s found, but right now he needs more information before initiating that conversation.

 

Even after turning out the lights he barely manages to doze, tossing and turning through a series of increasingly bizarre half-dreams. When sunlight starts peeking in the window, he gives up on sleep.

 

Breakfast seems like as good a place to start as any, so he showers and shaves and dresses in another button down-shirt, pairing it with jeans but no tie or jacket today. He spends a few minutes bracing himself, trying to convince himself this is any other undercover op, a fact finding mission. By the time he leaves his room he’s a bit more in control, settled more firmly into Agent Coulson.

 

Upon arriving at the diner he takes the same seat at the counter, noticing that the restaurant is as busy as the afternoon before. Seems like breakfast is a popular choice here, or maybe it’s the chalkboard advertisement promising pancakes and fresh berries that have drawn in customers. Either way he has to wait a little while before the waitress, Jenny, comes over so he can order coffee and the breakfast special. Once she’s gone he takes a deep breath and blows it away slowly, steeling himself to look up through the open window to the kitchen.

 

Clint’s at the flat top, flipping pancakes and bacon and eggs. Seeing him is less of a shock than the day before but no less tumultuous. Waiting for the food to cook Clint picks up a glass bowl of cream to whip by hand, and Phil has to swallow when he recognizes the corded muscles of his forearms and the string of veins running up them. His arms may not be as impressively bulky as before his disappearance, but they’re still captivating.

 

Whether it’s luck or instinct, Clint glances up and meets Phil’s eyes before he can look away. The blond gives him a warm smile and an aborted wave, then turns back to his work.

 

It’s just Jenny and Clint this morning, but they work well together. Clint flies through orders and is stacking a last plate with pancakes, a bowl of fruit and a large dollop of fresh whipped cream on top.

 

Phil’s surprised when Clint brings the plate out himself, sliding it into place in front of him.

 

“I was hoping you’d be back.” He says as he reaches underneath the counter for a small jug of maple syrup. Phil raises an eyebrow as he unwraps his silverware from the napkin, waiting for Clint to go on. He doesn’t bother indulging in optimism that Clint remembers him, but he’s also not going to discourage Clint’s apparent interest in him.

 

“I wanted to apologize - I didn’t mean to pry or upset you yesterday.” Clint ducks his head and raises one hand to rub the back of his neck.

 

Phil waves him off, and hopes he’s actually convincing when he answers, “You didn’t, it had just been a very long day already.”

 

He takes a bite before he can say anything more. The blueberries and strawberries are sweet; paired with the fresh cream they’re perfect compliments to the fluffy cakes. “These are very good, thank you.”

 

“Oh, thanks. Really my part was easy, but the cream and fruit are from local farms. It’s something we’ve been trying to incorporate more, and has been pretty well supported so far. I don’t know if you saw the signs for the Fall Festival tomorrow? The whole town’s basically going to close so people can hold their own stands and show their stuff, and a lot of the farmers are coming in as well.” He’s speaking with some pride.

 

Phil suspects he had more to do with the market and the use of local ingredients than he’s letting on. Clint’s always been smart and motivated, and while it’s odd to see him outside of the role of an agent, he’s not the least bit surprised to find Clint thriving.

 

“So, no pancakes tomorrow?” Phil asks with a teasing grin, letting himself enjoy this exchange. It’s surreal, like an alternate universe and far removed from the reunion he’d envisioned, but it’s still easy to talk to Clint.

 

Clint gives a short laugh, “No pancakes, but if you stop by the market we’re going to have a whole bunch of pies available,” he says.

 

“I suppose if everything’s going to be closed, there won’t be much else for me to do then.”

 

“Sorry about that, but it should be a lot of fun. It’s going to be like a town holiday,” he stops and gets a thoughtful look on his face, head tilted to one side as he studies Phil helping himself to another bite of his breakfast. “You know what, I’m guessing you don’t have plans for tomorrow afternoon? After the Festival we’re going to the park for a cookout, you should join us.”

 

Phil takes his time to chew before answering. Clint seems earnest in his request, but Phil’s not sure he wants to put that strain on his already fragile emotional state. “I’m not the best company right now.”

 

“Don’t have to be. It’s going to be just a small group of us, Laura and the kids and the rest of us strays from the diner.” As if he can sense Phil preparing to refuse he hurries on, “and with everything closed tomorrow you might as well come get something to eat. I promise, you don’t even have to talk to us if you don’t want, just grab a burger and I’ll leave you alone.”

 

Clint looks hopeful and Phil can’t stand the thought of disappointing him, so against his better judgment he finds himself nodding. “You bring up a good point.”

 

Clint’s smile grows with his happiness, and Phil’s throat closes correspondingly.

 

Thankfully Jenny calls for Clint to return to the kitchen before Phil can make more of a fool of himself. Phil turns back to his breakfast with a sigh, trying not to think about how he’s still a sucker for Clint with that smile.

 

***

 

The next day finds Phil wandering through the bright colors of the Fall Festival. It’s bigger than he would have guessed, and there’s a crowd of people making their way between stalls. He supposes many of these people and vendors are from outlying farms, which seems to be confirmed when he sees signs bearing family names.

 

Beyond the expected fruits and root vegetables and pumpkin flavored baked goods there are fresh eggs and dairy products, even a fairly wide selection of pork and beef. There are home made goods and blankets and scarves and a table where an old man with thick knobby knuckles is carving wood. In one corner there’s a petting zoo set up for the kids, with a calf and a pony and some goats.

 

He’s been wandering around for quite some time, having gotten a later start than he planned due to a last-minute conference call with SHIELD, so it’s nearing the last hour of the fair when he finally finds the area devoted to prepared food.

 

Immediately he sees where Clint’s manning one of the tables, apparently part of a group selling boxed meals. There’s already a line of people moving through tables set up by the group, choosing from various grilled meats, side salads, and desserts at the end. Deciding not to be a nuisance when there are paying customers, he buys himself a hot cider and looks around at the different stalls, the cup cradled between his hands to ward off the coming chill of fall.

 

While ambling between the tables, the hair on the back of his neck tingles and he recognizes the feel of a particularly intent pair of eyes on him. Taking the time to finish his perusal of the menu in front of him before turning, he’s completely unsurprised to find Clint staring at him. He’s boxing up baked goods at the dessert table, hands sure without glancing down. Phil smiles and gives up his wandering, striking out in a straight line towards Clint whose face lights up as he gets closer.

 

“Phil! I wasn’t sure you’d make it, or if I’d already missed you.” There’s a lull in the customers when Phil arrives, eyes still locked with Clint’s. So distracted by the smiling visage of his husband he doesn’t notice the girl standing next to him, the same girl from the diner two days ago.

 

“Is that him?” she asks pointing up at Phil. Clint pulls his eyes away to look at her.

 

“Don’t point, Lila. And yes, this is Phil. Phil, this is Lila,” he introduces. Phil reaches his hand over the sweets to offer his hand to her, making her giggle.

 

“I wanna give it to him!” She jumps up and down in excitement, and Phil quirks an eyebrow at Clint in question. The blond man shrugs and steps back to reach under the table, then stands again and hands a cardboard box to the girl. Lila takes it carefully in both hands before thrusting it out in front of her, offering it to Phil with a proud, “I made it!”

 

He thanks her profusely to her amusement and embarrassment before opening the box in his hands, feeling his smile slip slowly off his face at what he finds. Inside is a generous serving of a lattice worked pie, golden brown crust enclosing the deep red of strawberries and rhubarb stems.

 

Even without taking a bite he can taste the tart sweetness of the pie on his tongue, is transported back to a time when he’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen watching his mother and Clint. They’re both flour dusted and red lipped from the strawberries they’ve been eating as his mom entrusts the family recipe to Clint.

 

A few months after they were married she’d brought supplies and ensconced herself with Clint in the kitchen. That had been a little more than a year before she’d died and since then, whenever he was feeling low or missing her or having a terrible few weeks he would come home to find Clint baking, or presenting him with the fruits of his labor. Clint could bake many other things well and did so often, but this pie was reserved for the times Phil needed it most, and he was always touched by how his husband knew him so well.

 

The pause must have been greater than he thought, because he’s pulled from his memories by a gentle, “Phil?”

 

He looks up to meet concerned eyes and finds he needs to clear his throat of the lump residing there. Slowly closing the top of the box he takes the time to chase the ghosts from his mind. The man in front of him doesn’t know any of this history, was just being kind to save a lonely stranger a treat. No need to get sentimental about it.

 

“Sorry, distracted for a moment. Thank you for this,” he gestures to Clint and then speaks to Lila, “It looks absolutely delicious. Thank you for making it for me.” She blushes and presses into Clint’s side, who pulls her closer with a hand to her shoulder.

 

Phil’s ridiculously grateful for the renewed press of people working down the long table towards them, using it as a convenient excuse to escape. “We’ll be at the park after 3, near the playground,” Clint calls after him in parting, but Phil doesn’t turn around; just raises a hand over his shoulder in acknowledgement.

 

The crowd slows his progress as he works his way out of the market, box held protectively between his hands. Much like the pie in front of him, the decision to stay and expose himself to his amnesic husband is turning out to be as much bitter as sweet.

 

***

 

After spending the intervening hours waffling back and forth about whether to go to the park, Phil finds himself wandering a pathway around the broad green space. He reminds himself to treat this like a training mission – pretend both he and Clint are trying to show off for the juniors, trying to convince carefully planted agents that they don’t know each other outside of this ridiculously elaborate exercise set up by SHIELD. It works as long as Clint stays in character as Jimmy, but when he does something so very Clint-like…

 

Taking a deep breath, he blows it away slowly and forces his spine to lose some of its tension.

 

He finds Clint standing at a charcoal grill, beer in one hand and spatula in the other. Still a distance away, he watches as Clint puts both items in one hand and bends to pick up the tennis ball a black dog just dropped at his feet, sending it soaring away. At a nearby picnic table, the brunette woman from the diner is laying out plates and opening plastic containers. There’s a big, blue cooler on the ground at the end of the picnic table, where the other cook is wrist deep in ice. He’s pulling out sodas to offer Jenny and another blond woman next to her.

 

By the time he approaches from Clint’s blind side the dog is back, and he’s surprised when Clint addresses the dog directly. “Oh no, Max, I’m cooking. Get Phil to throw it for you.” He still hasn’t even turned around to verify that Phil’s standing behind him, just pokes at the burgers and hot dogs on the grill in front of him.

 

Phil can’t help the chuckle that escapes him when the dog turns his tilted head towards him. “Fair enough, suppose I should contribute in some way.” He tries not to feel resentful when his throw is far shorter than the other man’s; apparently the loss of muscle mass hasn’t diminished Clint’s strength as much as he would have thought.

 

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Clint leads the way to the picnic table and goes to the brunette’s side, her arm wrapping around his waist when he throws an arm over her shoulder. “Everyone, this is Phil,” he pauses while the people around them focus on the stranger amongst them. “Phil, this is Laura. That’s Brian and his girlfriend, Becky. I think you know Jenny.”

 

There’s the exchange of pleasantries for the next few minutes, and Phil tells his story of coming from the East coast to settle his great aunt’s affairs.

 

Laura smiles at him from where she’s pressed to Clint’s side, “It’s nice to meet you, Phil. We’re glad you could come.”

 

He thanks her politely but doesn’t know what else to say. He’s grateful when Brian calls to him, giving him a reason to turn away where he’s offered a selection of beer and soda. Phil chooses the soda, certain it’s best not to add alcohol to the mix of his emotions.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil sees Clint press a kiss to Laura’s hair before walking away to get the food off the grill while she rounds up the kids. Phil occupies himself with throwing the ball for Max, and if he’s a little aggressive with his effort no one notices.

 

In short order they’re sitting down around the picnic table where he’s introduced to Cooper, the only person he has yet to meet. After the general shuffle of grabbing drink refills and finding seats, they settle together with surprising ease. This group is clearly comfortable amongst each other and that feeling of belonging extends to him, passing plates and condiments back and forth as if he wasn’t a stranger in their midst.

 

Even as the bitterness of watching Clint with Laura persists, he can’t help but appreciate how these people have come together, how they’ve accepted Clint into their fold. Phil watches him help Cooper fill a plate and wonders if maybe Clint isn’t better off here.

 

It’s a shocking thought and he has to take a quick drink to wash a bite of cheeseburger past the tightness in his throat.

 

Clint’s clearly found a family of sorts, something Clint’s wanted for years but that their lifestyle couldn’t permit. That Phil wouldn’t permit because he’d never been willing to give it a try. And now seeing how happy Clint is here, Phil can’t help but think about all the things he did wrong to not give this to Clint when he had the chance.

 

Distracted by regret and worry, Phil doesn’t add much to the conversations around him.

 

***

 

When the meal is over they all help with the clean up, repacking the leftovers and wiping down the table. Brian and Becky bid their goodbyes and depart, while Lila and Cooper pull their mother towards the playground, Jenny going with them. It leaves Phil sitting on the table top with his feet on the bench when Clint joins him.

 

“Wasn’t sure you’d come.” He’s got his hands tucked into the front of his hoodie, keen eyes tracking the family at play.

 

“I’m glad I did,” Phil says truthfully, somewhat surprised that his sullenness doesn’t come across in his tone. He may not like the direction his thoughts have turned but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thankful for the family that’s adopted Clint, that makes him happy.

 

“Laura says it was insensitive of me to invite you to a family outing when you’re still mourning your own,” he shrugs self-consciously.

 

Phil blows out a breath. “I’m sorry about earlier. It’s been a long year and it hits me unexpectedly at times.”

 

“I can understand that.” Clint’s turned towards him now, and Phil can see the truth of that statement reflected in Clint’s eyes. “Things were looking pretty crappy for me about a year back, but that changed when I found my way here, found Laura and the kids. It’s like a second chance that I’m still not sure I deserve.” He shrugs again.

 

Phil just nods silently, unable to speak. They sit together in companionable silence until the others return some time later, cheeks rosy with exertion in the chilly air. Phil takes his leave then, deciding to stop imposing his bad mood on the happy family on their day off.

 

Phil contemplates his conversation with Clint on the way back to the inn. Clint’s rarely one to initiate a conversation about feelings, let alone to articulate his thoughts so clearly. Expressing emotions is not something either of them are particularly good at, but it seems that this family has benefitted Clint in more ways than one.

 

There’s a hollow space below his ribs as Phil contemplates what to do next, not liking the answer he’s coming up with.

 

He’s so lost in the heartbreak that he barely recognizes the assassin sitting on his bed, just stops short and leans against the wall while he takes in her straight back and crossed arms.

 

The room’s starting to darken with the setting sun, both of them half hidden in shadow. She’s exuding anger but he knows her, and this is defensive, scared. He can only imagine what she’s reading from his own body language, and he can’t meet her eyes when she starts speaking, words slow and measured.

 

“I was mid-mission, Phil. It could have waited. You could have waited to go on this fools errand until…” She looks away, posture tense.

 

He thinks the anger is coming from her rapidly disappearing hope; with his own emotions openly shattered, she must think he’s failed to find Clint. He wonders if that would have been better.

 

“Natasha,” he starts, sitting beside her on the bed with a sigh.

 

“Dammit, Phil! Chasing a ghost acro—“

 

“It’s him.” She stops talking immediately, and if he thought she was tense before she’s a block of ice beside him now. He gives a humorless bark of a laugh, “Well, kind of him.”

 

“That’s not a ‘kind of’ statement.”

 

“It’s complicated.” Another humorless gasp rises out of the hollowness inside him.

 

“Phil.” There’s warning in her tone now.

 

“I don’t know, Natasha. I’ve been all over the records from the AIM facility, and it would seem that, while they did not achieve their primary goal, they have managed to make him completely forget who he is.”

 

She stands, stalking back and forth in the small space, her anger and hurt like a physical wave breaking from her. She curses in Russian under her breath before turning back towards him, trying to rein in her emotions to focus on the next practical steps.

 

“Ok, so what’s your extraction plan? Is Fury sending a team? What’s medical think…” Her questions peter out when she catches sight of his face. “Phil?”

 

He looks down at his clenched hands, at the metal around his finger. “He’s always wanted a family, did you know that? Kids, maybe a dog or two. Despite everything with that asshole father of his and what happened with Barney, he wanted to start a family. I kept putting him off, there was always so much to do with SHIELD, another mission, countless reasons why it wouldn’t work.”

 

He sighs, not looking at Natasha where she’s standing motionless in front of him. “He finally convinced me to buy the house. I’m sure he thought it would be the first step and yet, three years in and I still wouldn’t entertain getting a dog, let alone kids.”

 

“He was happy just to get to come home to you.”

 

Phil nods. “I know, I know. But I could have given him more than excuses. He’s found all that here. I don’t know particulars but there’s a woman and her children. He’s found himself a family, finally has what he’s always wanted.”

 

The comprehension on her face as she realizes what he’s contemplating is quickly replaced by rage.

 

“So you’re just going to give up on him? After everything you throw in the towel?” Her hands are shaking and he’s mildly surprised she isn’t trying to literally slap some sense into him.

 

“He doesn’t even know me, Natasha.”

 

Her voice goes low but it’s all the more intimidating, stressed but controlled as she forces the words past a clenched jaw. “Then we will take him home, we will help him remember what he forgot!”

 

“To what end? I haven’t changed! Why take him away? To remind him of all the shit he’s lived through?” He pauses, recalling the contentedness on Clint’s face when he’d been watching the family play at the park, remembers his words. “He’s been given a second chance, and he’s safe to live out a normal life. Happy. Safe. It’s all I could ever ask for him.”

 

“No! You can’t just give up on him. You, of all people! How dare you?”

 

It’s odd but her anger helps to focus him, keep him calm. “I don’t know what fight you think there is to win – he’s not... _Clint_ , anymore.”

 

“You don’t get to make this decision for him, you can’t…”

 

“How can I not? Just think about it, for one minute, think about what life could be if the Red Room never happened, if you could have a normal life? Would you take the chance to forget about the red in your ledger, knowing you could be happy?”

 

“No, he wouldn’t…” Her objection is barely a whisper and he sees her start to understand. She’s still trembling, but it’s not from rage now.

 

“You don’t know that. And I can’t think of a way to give him the choice without hurting him, without putting him in danger.”

 

She shakes her head in denial, but from the helpless tears starting to gather he can see her resolve crumbling.

 

“Right now he’s happy and safe. No one knows he’s here, or even that he’s alive. We don’t know that bringing him back would help him remember, but it would put a target on his head if he wanted to return here.”

 

“He’d remember you,” she tries to add conviction to her voice when she reaffirms, “he would.”

 

“Then what? Even **_if_** he remembers me, and remembers all the terrible things he’s lived through, then what? Making him choose would be painful for him.” He takes a deep breath, blowing it away between pursed lips. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

 

She won’t look at him, turned away with her head bent and shoulders pulled up. She looks defeated, a feeling he’s familiar with.

 

“Do you want to see him?”

 

“Does it help?” She asks over her shoulder, still not turning to look at him.

 

“Not really,” he chokes out around a humorless laugh. “But after spending the last year waiting for a body to show up... ”

 

There’s not much to say after that, each lost in their own heartache.

 

***

 

The next morning they head to the diner. It’s still early on a Sunday, and there aren’t many patrons when they sit at the counter. He can hear Natasha’s quiet intake of breath when she sees Clint where he’s wiping down counters in the kitchen. She’s quiet beside him as she watches, and he rests a hand on hers to keep her grounded.

 

A few minutes later she looks away and clears her throat, “He looks good. Too skinny, though.”

 

Phil laughs, a real laugh for the first time in too long.

 

He stops when the waitress approaches. “Laura, good morning.”

 

“Phil! How are you? Coffee?” She puts a mug in front of each of them and begins filling them.

 

“I’m well. Laura, this is my friend, Natalie. She’s come to help me wrap things up.”

 

Laura smile widens and she holds out a hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. Will you be staying long?”

 

“Leaving after breakfast, I’m afraid. Have to get Phil out of here before he decides he’s going to stay.” She’s the consummate spy, and Phil’s sure Laura can’t see anything of her true feelings.

 

“Well, we’d be happy to have him.” Laura leaves them menus and walks away, assuring them she’ll be back shortly.

 

“She’s too nice for him.”

 

“Thanks for that…” he says dryly.

 

They eat in silence, her watching Clint and Phil watching her. It’s peaceful in a way, a closure of sorts.

 

Clint comes out to see them just as they push their plates away.

 

“Morning, Jimmy,” he emphasizes the name. “Another excellent meal.”

 

“Laura says you’re trying to skip town without saying goodbye. Wouldn’t be any truth to that would there?” He winks at him and nods to Natasha, “Ma’am.”

 

Phil can see her freeze now that’s she’s face to face with Clint. Face to face with this man who at one time saved her life, and now doesn’t recognize her.

 

“I’ll be right back, bathroom.” She manages to hold onto her usual grace, but Phil can see the cracks in her composure.

 

Clint watches her go. “Let me guess, it’s still complicated.”

 

“Something like that.” Phil leans forward across the counter. “I want to say thank you for everything these last few days. It was nice not to spend it alone.”

 

“Yeah, well, anytime you need a break you think about coming on back to visit. We’ll keep a seat open for you.” Clint reaches a hand out, “It was nice meeting you, Phil.”

 

“You too.” He holds on a moment longer than proper, then stands and reaches for his wallet, pulling out far too much and leaving it on the counter.

 

Natasha joins him on the way out, and he looks back one last time to see Clint watching them. Then he’s pushing the door open and tells himself he’s moving on.

 

They’re almost to the car when Phil hears his name being called and turns to find Laura hurrying after them. Natasha looks at him with a raised eyebrow but he waves her on, handing her the keys as the other woman approaches. “Laura, what can I do for you?”

 

She opens her mouth but no words come at first, then she blows out a breath. “I… I wanted to… I… you know him, don’t you?” It comes out of her in a rush as she looks him in the eyes. “Don’t you?”

 

He can’t find his voice but knows she can see it on his face. He nods. She draws in a shaky breath at the admission. “Are you going to come back for him?”

 

He looks away and pauses, the decision he’s made weighing heavily, but eventually he manages to shake his head.

 

“He says he’s dangerous. Is he right?”

 

That one’s a bit complicated and can’t be answered by a yes or no, even if he has to clear his throat a few times before he can get a hoarse croak to pass. “He can be.”

 

She looks conflicted at that, worried.

 

His voice has regained some of it’s strength when he adds, “but he’s a good man. The best I know.”

 

She seems reassured by his conviction, nods to him once. On a sudden whim he reaches for his wallet and pulls out a card, one of the real ones with his name and personal phone. “If you ever need anything.”

 

She hesitates a moment before taking it, “Thank you.”

 

He wonders if she’ll ever know what she’s thanking him for.

 

 

 

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	19. Chapter 19

 

Chapter 19

 

It’s been a few weeks since the Fall Festival, and the diner has been busier than usual since then. He’s helping Brian with prep work in the kitchen when Jenny calls for him from the dining room, a note of panic in her voice. By the time he makes it to the dining room Ms. Miller is also calling his name and it doesn’t take long to see why – there’s a stranger holding Jenny by the arm in a vice like grip, crowding her up against a table in front. He’s whispering harshly into her ear and she’s pale, eyes downcast and submissive in a way he hasn’t seen in months.

 

“Whoa, let’s take a step back, here. How about you let her go and we can talk about it?”

 

He has his hands up in a placating gesture, but isn’t surprised when the guy dismisses him with a hate filled glance. “It’s none of your business, pal.”

 

“You’ve got my friend by the arm, seems like it’s my business.” He’s slowly inching closer.

 

“Fuck off!” The man whirls toward him, opening a small distance from Jenny but enough to be taken advantage of. Moving quickly, he wraps a hand around the man’s forearm, pinching the bones together and forcing him to release Jenny.

 

“Get to the kitchen,” he tells her, being sure to keep his body between her and the attacker. He addresses the man in front of him, “Now calm down and we can talk about this.”

 

He’s really not surprised when the guy responds by swinging at him. He is surprised when he responds instinctively, and the man is sitting on the floor nursing a broken nose a split second later. That dissociative feeling is back, the one where he knows his body can better handle a situation than his brain.

 

He fights it at first, but lets it take over when the stranger stands with a knife in hand. Someone screams as they size each other up, only a moment before the man swings the knife at his midsection.

 

It’s like watching through the eyes of someone else. Block, disarm, force and counter force. When it’s done he finds himself with the knife in his own hand, standing ready over the attacker who’s screaming on the floor with a dislocated shoulder.

 

The knife feels natural, like an extension of himself that he didn’t know was missing. It scares the shit out of him.

 

He looks up when the door opens to admit a pair of deputies, and from there things are resolved quickly. Somehow he manages to keep calm while handing over the knife and giving a statement. He gives Jenny the rest of the day and calls in Mary to take over the front end, trying to calm his nerves and stop his leg from jittering while he waits. When Mary arrives he heads out almost immediately, taking the distance to Laura’s at a brisk walk and hoping she hasn’t left to run the errands she was planning to do today.

 

She’s folding laundry in the living room when he comes in, and the smile on her face falls quickly. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

 

He shakes his head and starts pacing, not sure how to put it into words. The altercation itself isn’t what worries him, it’s the fact that he feels so calm about it; about being threatened with a deadly weapon, about dislocating a man’s shoulder and standing over him with a knife. He’s panicking because it was so easy to step into that alter ego, because it felt right.

 

Putting down the shirt in her hands Laura stands, stopping his nervous walk and taking one of his hands in hers. “Talk to me.” She’s gentle but assertive, and he finds himself responding automatically.

 

“Jenny’s ex attacked her in the diner. I got her away but he had a knife…” Her eyes widen and he hurries to reassure her, “Everyone’s ok, no one was hurt. Well, no one except him. But Laura, I… I don’t know…”

 

She’s looking at him in confusion now. Guiding them both to the couch he sits them down and turns towards her. “Remember when we talked after I shot that cougar, how instincts I didn’t even know existed just took over? My very first memory is like that - waking up surrounded by people who I just knew wanted to hurt me but my body just kind of… took over, got me out. It happened again today, like this hidden person takes over when there’s a threat of violence. But it’s violent, it’s dangerous. I’m dangerous, Laura.”

 

She’s shaking her head. “No, Jimmy, you aren’t…”

 

“I am! I… listen, this guy attacked me and I got the knife away from him, got him on the floor, and just looking at him I knew where I would stab to make it quick. I could have killed him seven different ways even without the knife in my hand. What kind of a man knows that?”

 

“I don’t know, but you aren’t dangerous.” She sounds less certain now, voice gone thin. “You only respond when provoked.”

 

“You don’t know that! Jeez, I don’t know what it is so I can’t say what triggers it. I thought… it’s been months since it last happened, and I thought that was it, that it was an after effect of what they did to me but it isn’t. It’s inside me, Laura, I know it is.” He sighs and hangs his head. “I don’t trust myself. I can’t stay here, Laura, I’m a danger to you and the kids.”

 

“Don’t say that!” She slides closer and places a hand on his wrist, imploring him to see. “You would never hurt--”

 

“You don’t know that! I don’t know that. What if one of them startles me? I don’t know what this thing is inside me, if I can control it.” There’s an ache inside his chest, making it hard to breath. “What if they find me, the ones who did this to me? God, Laura, I can’t even stand the thought that I might hurt one of you, or that you get hurt because of me…”

 

“What do you want to do?” She asks, gentle and far more patient than he deserves.

 

“I want to stay, but I can’t. I can’t keep putting you and the kids at risk. I thought this thing had burned out but I was wrong, and I don’t know if it ever will.” He pushes back into the couch, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “I’ll just keep moving, going forward and not stopping for too long.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, watching him silently through wet eyes before standing and walking out of the room. He’s got tears of his own prickling at the corners of his eyes, thinks he can’t blame her for walking away first. He’s still trying to get the strength to stand, to pack and leave when she comes back, sitting on the couch beside him.

 

“How about going back instead?” She asks him and holds out a small card.

 

The high quality paper is white with a black emblem, some kind of stylistic eagle in a circle. Under that there’s an address located in New York and a name, Phillip J. Coulson, in recessed black ink followed by a phone number. That’s it, no other clue or writing, and yet something about it feels right.

 

“When Phil was here a few weeks ago he left this, said he knew who you used to be. He said you’re a good man, Jimmy.” She looks slightly nervous, guilty, and he supposes he should be angry that she kept this from him, but he just feels sad.

 

“I’m sorry, Laura. I’m so very sorry.” He’s turned to look at her now, takes in her kind brown eyes and gentle smile. God, he feels like such a jerk.

 

“You were always a flight risk,” she tells him, sliding her hand into his with a smile that’s a little forced. “If you feel you need to do this, then go. If you can come back to us, do.”

 

He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it, “I’m sor—“

 

“Don’t. Take care of yourself. I’ll talk to Cooper and Lila if you need me to?”

 

“I don’t deserve you, I never did.”

 

“You don’t know that either. Why don’t you find out and then let us know?” She’s hugging him then, and while he doesn’t want it to it feels like absolution. When she pulls away he let’s her go without another word, not watching when she leaves the room.

 

From there it’s almost easy to get up, pack a few extra things in his go bag. With the decision made it’s just execution now, and within minutes he’s ready to walk out the door.

 

He’s bent down patting Max good bye when Laura comes back with a plastic bag in hand, inside which he finds sandwiches and snacks and a couple bottles of water. She doesn’t say anything more and neither does he. With a final glance around the room he lifts the pack to his shoulders and opens the door, letting her close it behind him.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

 

When Phil returns to New York he doesn’t take himself off the roster for leave, not right away. He still has another 24 hours of time he reserved for himself, and he plans to take it.

 

He does what he’s always done and buries himself in work, deep enough that he doesn’t have to feel. The first thing he does is make SHIELD database entries for James ‘Jimmy” Coughlin, and Laura, Cooper, and Lila as friendlies. They won’t be searchable in the database unless they become directly involved in a case, but the designation will ensure SHIELD protects them if anything happens within a hundred mile radius of the small town. He spends a couple hours making sure the changes are untraceable, and adds an alert so that if anyone accesses these files he will be notified immediately.

 

Then he sets a digital net to catch any news from Wyoming which may be of interest, both from SHIELD resources and the internet at large. He may not be able to protect Clint more directly, but this should at least give him a chance.

 

(It’s how, a few weeks later, he’ll get an alert about an attack in a diner averted by one of the employees. It doesn’t identify Clint in any way, so there’s no need to intervene at the time. It does, however, suggest Clint’s unwavering ability to draw trouble to himself has withstood despite the amnesia.)

 

His meeting with Nick doesn’t bear remembering beyond getting begrudging approval for the changes to the database, which can then be locked by the director’s Level 10 clearance.

 

He manages to keep himself busy and occupied right up until he gets home, but as soon as he walks through the door it all collapses around him.

 

His chest feels hollow when he falls onto the couch and looks around at the signs of a life once lived – the bookshelf with their shared knick-knacks, the DVD stand with his classics and Clint’s action movies all mixed together. The purplish grey paint they’d finally agreed on and then spent a weekend putting onto the walls. Even the couch he’s sitting on, chosen for the extra deep cushions so they could curl up together. It was the first piece of furniture they’d bought together, having gone shopping after a particularly long stretch of falling asleep together on the couch only to waken with stiff necks.

 

Despite the space around him he feels trapped, the extra bedrooms and fenced in back yard feel less like hope and more like a coffin for the dreams they once shared. He feels like he’s being buried by the decisions he’s made, both in the past and more recently, and the one he’s forming now.

 

Pulling his tablet toward him, Phil opens a new window in the browser and, with a heavy sigh, starts looking for single bedroom apartments.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for only getting one chapter out last week - long week with work. So here's two chapters all at once! Enjoy!

 

 

Chapter 21

 

The trip east is slow going. He managed to pick up a fake ID in Cheyenne and bought a bus ticket; he didn’t want to risk security at an airport. He’d picked up a couple of second hand paperbacks to read, but ends up spending more time than he’d like to admit thinking about the bland appearing man who’d come to the diner.

 

Something had seemed familiar about Phil but he’d attributed it to a shared history of loss. Now it seems they’d known each other, and even he can admit that’s a comforting thought; it’s hard to imagine Phil being a bad man, and it gives him hope for himself. He’s thankful for that, because the closer he gets the more he sheds the persona of Jimmy and the more he becomes someone else – tense, hyper-vigilant, easily blending into the crowds around him while he takes in the exits and entrances, settles on the best way to neutralize security or cause a distraction to cover his own exit. It’s all taken in and assessed before he realizes he’s done it, the information stored and body ready. It comes more naturally than giving his name, and it scares him.

 

It takes half a week to arrive in New York City. The bustling streets are at once nerve wracking and reassuring; easy to blend into the crowd but too many people for his comfort. He spends another few days living in a cheap motel and doing surveillance on the plain looking concrete building the card has led him to. He watches the security patrols and the hand-offs, notices weaknesses in the otherwise significant defenses.

 

In the end he decides the morning rush will be the ideal time to infiltrate. If pressed he wouldn’t be able to say why he doesn’t just call the number on the card; he’d even bought a disposable cell phone for the purpose and yet something’s stopped him each time. It’s not so much that he fears Phil, as he’s worried who else might come for him.

 

It’s a little after 0800 when he makes his move. Keeping his head ducked into the collar of his jacket he walks through the front door with a mass of people making their way in to work. The large lobby is open and bright. Despite the somewhat bland exterior the lobby’s full of computers and has badge-access security. There are queues at each of the half dozen scanners, and after a careful glance over the occupants of each line he chooses one.

 

The man beside him the next line over is of similar height and build, similar sandy colored blonde hair, with an access badge hanging from his briefcase. Sloppy, and all too easy to pull free without alerting the man or the others around them.

 

It’s effortless to slip through the security point when the ID clears the way. The guards hardly spare him a glance, especially when they descend on the man next to him trying to make it through without a badge.

 

The corridors and elevators beyond security seem endless, spotless halls filled with men and women in suits and others in tech gear; everyone seems to be carrying a firearm, some openly and some well hidden under clothing. The familiar eagle stares at him from everywhere, and though he’s never heard of SHIELD before everything here speaks of government alphabet agency. Once or twice a passerby catches his face and does a double take, but they always seem to dismiss what they’ve seen as they hurry on their way. Still, an itch sets in and he knows he needs to get out of the main corridors.

 

He may not feel comfortable with them but he does trust his instincts when they take him on a meandering but short course through the maze of hallways, eventually ending at the door to a stairwell which accepts his pilfered badge.

 

There’s no one else in the stairwell while he climbs, and the same instinct he’s been following has him stopping at the 12th floor. He exits the heavy fire door into a hallway lined by glass walls looking out over office space and conference rooms. The hall ends in a crossing hallway like a big T, offices with solid walls and doors lining the far wall. He knows it’ll be the last office on the left.

 

He leaves the relative safety of the stairwell and walks openly down the hall. There aren’t many agents on this floor yet, just a few early birds settling into their desks for the day and a young man pushing a mail cart past him. Towards the end there’s a break room on the right where a tan-skinned bald man and a stern-faced woman are talking over coffee.

 

The man begins to take a drink when he happens to glance out the glass partition, When their eyes meet his eyebrows shoot up and he starts choking on his coffee. The woman gives the man a fond smile of exasperation and reaches over to slap his back as she looks up to see what’s caught her companions’ attention. Her hand stops mid strike, withdrawing instead to cover her mouth, opened in shock.

 

He fights the impulse to duck his head and hide, choosing instead to give a wink and a cheeky grin before finally making the turn left.

 

The door to the last office on the left is open and he takes a moment to glance inside. He can see Phil bent over a large wooden desk, pen in hand. Leaning against the door jam he raps his knuckles to the wood in a rapid pattern, causing Phil to look up. The older man startles and stands, striking what sounds like a knee against the desk in his haste.

 

“Cli—“ he starts to say in a breathless whisper before clearing his throat, “Jimmy, what are you doing here? How did you get in?” There’s a maelstrom of emotions hiding in Phil’s stormy eyes and strong set jaw.

 

Moving further into the room he’s opening his mouth to respond when the stern looking woman appears in the doorway behind him, gun in hand but not raised. She’s staring at him even as she addresses the other man, “Phil?”

 

“We’re good.” Phil says. When she doesn’t move he adds, a bit more firmly, “Stand down, Maria.”

 

She’s still looking at him like she clearly disagrees, but she holsters the gun.

 

“I’ll be outside.” She doesn’t turn as she backs out the door, pulling it closed behind her. Tucking his hands into his pockets he turns to look at Phil again.

 

“Am I a threat?”

 

Phil sighs and gestures to the chairs in front of his desk as he takes his own seat. “You can be. But I don’t think that’s the reason you came here.”

 

No, it isn’t, but how do you even start to ask someone to tell you who you are? He’s suddenly thinking this was a really bad idea, that this wasn’t worth the danger he’s put himself in. For all he knows these are the same people who cut his head open and tried to kill him. However calm Phil appears it could be a ruse, a way of passing time to trap him here. His thoughts must be coming across on his face because the older man sits forward with a placating gesture.

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume to know why you are here, I need you to tell me. I know you don’t understand why right now, but you need to think hard about whether you want to go down this road.”

 

Faced now with the opportunity to regain his past he hesitates. What if he doesn’t like what he finds, doesn’t like the person he is? But then he thinks about Laura and Cooper and Lila, about not knowing if he’s going to hurt them one day, about someone hurting them because of him, and his resolve strengthens.

 

“What’s my name?”

 

“It’s classified.” Phil’s tone is so dry he’s not sure the man’s being serious, but when nothing more is forthcoming he suspects that’s all he’ll get.

 

“Do I work here?”

 

“Classified.”

 

“What do you do?”

 

“Classified.” Phil sighs and leans forward over his desk. “Look, Jimmy, yo—“

 

“Don’t call me that. I know that’s not my name.” Phil looks at him assessing before nodding his head.

 

“Ok. But if you only came here to learn if you were a threat to your family, then the answer is no and you can go about your life hopefully satisfied with that answer. If you desire anything more, there’s a lot of red tape to go through.” His face is passive but his body language turns tense, defensive. “You might not like what you find.”

 

They stare at each other across the room, and he’s still trying to decide whether he should take the seat or the out he’s been offered when the phone rings.

 

Phil answers with a gruff, “Coulson.”

 

He can only hear this side of the conversation, but Phil’s eyes are still locked on him, confirming this call is about him. “No, Sir. He’s not. Of course, Sir. Only his file, Sir, nothing more at this time. I won’t. Marcus, I know.”

 

He waits until Phil hangs up to ask one more question, “Was I happy?”

 

Phil’s gaze seems to pierce him, burning through him before falling away. “I like to think so.”

 

“Then what do I need to do?”

 

***

 

Apparently the answer to that is ‘a shit ton of paperwork.’ Phil hands him form after form of non-disclosure agreements and waivers, there’s a blood test, and a picture for his new badge which reads, “Guest, No Clearance.”

 

By the time they get through everything it’s after noon, so Phil directs them to the cafeteria where they load up take out boxes before returning to Phil’s office. After hours of having people stare at him it’s a welcome relief to close the door behind them. Even Phil acting like a silent badass tour guide beside him hadn’t been able to keep the curious from making themselves known.

 

There’s a new file on Phil’s desk which hadn’t been on the freshly cleared surface when they’d left, but Phil ignores it in favor of starting on lunch. It’s not until both boxes are in the trashcan that Phil takes the folder in hand and extends it towards him.

 

“What do you make of this?”

 

He leafs through it quickly, noting the heavy black markings blocking most of the print. When he flips back to the front page he can tell it’s a personnel file. Age, date of birth, marital status, even height and eye color is blacked out.

 

“Clinton Francis Barton. That’s me, isn’t it?” Something about it feels right, confirmed by Phil’s nod across from him. He pauses and thinks a moment more, staring at the letters on the paper. “Clint.”

 

This time he thinks he sees Phil’s lips twitch upward.

 

Looking down at the page there are only a few other lines not blacked out, including status: Missing In Action, 29 August 2005. Recruitment: Bulgaria, 2 October 1990. There are only a handful of other papers, including what appears to be a mission summary dated 18 August 2005. Apparently it was supposed to be a surveillance operation, though the objectives are crossed out. He glances up at Phil with a quirked eyebrow.

 

“We don’t know what happened. You were doing routine surveillance on a scientific group when you missed a check in. We managed to track you to a remote base in Colorado but, by the time we got there, you were long gone. Two of the guards admitted to killing you, and the search was called off.” Phil’s tone is flat, clinical.

 

Choosing to ignore the unease brought about by ‘admitted to killing you,’ he nods. “How did you find me?”

 

Phil’s lips quirk, “A lucky shot.” Like everything else so far, Phil doesn’t seem to want to expand on that.

 

“Not a lot of information in exchange for all that paperwork you had me fill out. So now what?”

 

“We don’t know what was done to you during your captivity. First you’ll need to give a statement of what you remember, how you ended up working as a cook in a small town diner, the people you met and your relationships with them.” Phil looks away at that, a quick glance to the right before snapping back. “Given the nature of their research, we can’t assume they weren’t successful in some way. In order to proceed, you’ll need to submit to a full medical evaluation, including psych.”

 

“And I assume I can’t just leave and go back to my hotel in the meantime?”

 

“No.” Phil at least has the grace to look sheepish about it. “At this point we can’t allow you to go unsupervised. You need to be with a senior level agent at all times, or under surveillance. I can find you housing on base, but you won’t be able to leave your assigned rooms unless accompanied.”

 

Clint winces. “That kind of sucks. Is there an option 2?”

 

Phil watches him for a moment in silence. “Option 2 is I accompany you to a safe house. There still won’t be a lot of freedom or privacy, but at least there are no cameras.”

 

“Option 2 it is. So when is this debrief?”

 

“Now. I’m sorry but we’ll need to go to an interrogation room, and there will be another agent present in addition to video recording.”

 

“Sounds cozy.” He stands and hands the file back to Phil. “Shall we get a move on, then?”

 

Phil tucks the file into a drawer and locks his desk before standing and leading the way. As they’re leaving Clint drawls out with a cocky smile, “You know that file mentioned a code name…”

 

Phil stops and turns around, a small smile curving his lips as he gives a conspiratorial gesture to have Clint come in closer. When he does lean forward in anticipation, Phil whispers, “Classified.”

 

***

 

They leave the building well after dark, having spent hours rehashing the last year or so of Clint’s life. The debrief was as invasive and uncomfortable as would be expected, though at times he was sure Phil was more upset than himself. It was odd and makes him wonder what their relationship was like prior to his disappearance. He’s sure they were friends at least.

 

On the way Phil leads them to a sandwich shop for takeout, only making suggestions when asked. It’s reassuring that Phil’s giving him his autonomy, not trying to replace him with memories of a man he’s not entirely sure exists anymore.

 

The ‘safe house’ turns out to be an off base building of temporary apartments for agents, with heavy security at the doors including scanners and guards. Their apartment’s on the top floor, Phil tells him, and true to his word the cameras lining the hallways don’t extend into the living space.

 

It’s been a long day and Clint feels it as he settles on the couch with his sandwich. Phil takes the armchair across the short space and turns on the TV but tosses the remote next to Clint on the couch.

 

He considers the little black rectangle for a minute but doesn’t change the channel from some antique hunting show – for the last year he’s really only watched cartoons and PG movies, anything else is fine.

 

After finishing his dinner he crumbles the paper in his hands and settles back into the slightly too soft couch cushions. In his nearly comatose post-food state he stares at the TV, watching some guy from Tennessee getting an antique bow appraised. It’s a beautiful weapon, an old English long bow with Celtic etchings, and he scoffs when the man tries to convince the appraiser that it was used in a long ago battle. The bow is an amazing piece of art but that’s the end of it, there’s no way the thing has ever been drawn with purpose. The appraiser seems to agree, and the show moves on to some old cutlery.

 

He’s nearly dozing off when Phil stands to take the trash to the kitchen. He returns shortly after, holding out an old style flip phone. “It’s a burner phone, one time use only and untraceable.” He shrugs, “I thought you might like to call Laura.”

 

The mention of Laura shakes the sleep from him, and he reaches eagerly for the phone. He has avoided calling her lest he lead danger to her doorstep but he can’t deny it would be nice to hear a reassuring voice right now. He’s already dialing as Phil moves to the bedroom muttering something about catching up on work.

 

Checking the time and calculating the difference in hours he realizes it’s a bit late for the kids to still be up, but he should be able to catch Laura before she heads to bed.

 

The ringing of the phone gives way and his relief has him whispering her name into the receiver. “Jimmy? Oh my God, are you alright?” Despite the worry in her voice he finds himself relaxing just hearing her, tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying lifting off his shoulders.

 

“Hey, yeah, I’m good,” he reassures her. “I can’t tell you very much but I’m safe. I’m with Phil, he’s taking care of me.”

 

“Good, that’s good. It’s good to hear from you.” She breathes out a sigh and he wonders if she isn’t feeling a similar sense of relief.

 

“How are Lila and Cooper?” he asks and settles back into the couch, feet up on the coffee table in front of him.

 

“They’re good. They miss you but we’re adapting.” She doesn’t pause – she isn’t trying to make him feel badly, it’s just a fact. “Lila’s teacher has her trying out for a role in the school Christmas pageant, and she’s running around rehearsing lines to Max every night. Cooper got an A on that science test you were helping him study for. Oh, and…” He lets her voice wash over him, offering a laugh or comment where appropriate but otherwise letting her update him on life in the small town he’d called home. Jenny’s ex is in jail. Brian is loving the extra hours and looking to apply to colleges for next fall.

 

Eventually she either runs out of things to say or there’s a natural lull in the conversation, both of them content with listening to the other breathe. Glancing at the time he sits up with a sigh. “I better get going, I’ve been warned I have an early day tomorrow.”

 

“Take care of yourself, Jimmy. We miss you. Keep in touch when you can.”

 

When the line goes dead he finds himself staring at the phone with a conflict of emotions. While it’s nice to hear from Laura, he still can’t give her anything back, can’t even tell her his real name. God, he’s such an asshole.

 

Trying to hold back the melancholy he breaks down the phone, removing the battery and SIM card before leaving the pieces on the coffee table. In the bedroom he finds Phil still dressed and sitting up on one of the twin beds, reading from his tablet. He’s sure the man can see the complex mess of emotion on his face, but other than a raised eyebrow he doesn’t comment, just nods towards the supplies he’s left on Clint’s bed.

 

Having stashed his bag in a bus station locker he’s grateful for the pair of sweat pants, t-shirt, and a still packaged toothbrush balanced on top. The bathroom’s small but bright, and he gets changed quickly before returning to the room. There’s no way for him to tell at this point whether Phil left him the bed near the window on purpose or not, but he suspects it’s always been his preference. Phil leaves the room just as he’s crawling under the sheets, facing the window and the small piece of the sky visible beneath the partially drawn blinds.

 

They don’t talk when Phil returns, he just turns off the light and Clint can hear him settling into bed. He tries to empty his mind but there’s too much racing around, not least of all trepidation for the next day, for finally finding out what was done to him and if it’s permanent. He’ll be surprised in the morning when he realizes he fell asleep almost instantly, and slept through the night without waking.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have plenty of excuses on why this next chapter took so long, but I'll spare you and just post the chapter!

 

Chapter 22

 

Phil has his jaw clenched tight, trying not to let the stress and uncertainty show while he waits in a conference room in Medical. Nick and Maria are with him but he barely notices them - his focus is on breathing, on keeping his mask in place.

 

His stomach is trying to decide if it wants to be in his throat or his feet, flip flopping as he tries to rein in his emotions. There’s fear and worry, anger and resentment, love and hope; so much hope he’s at risk of losing himself again.

 

After running Clint through a gamut of tests all morning, the head neurosurgeon Nick brought in to lead the medical team is due any minute to give them the results.

The wait ends when a woman who looks far too young steps in. His stomach appears to have decided on his throat and he finds he can’t speak.

 

Fury speaks up from beside him, “What do you know?”

 

The woman pulls out a seat opposite them, placing her notes on the table in front of her and a tablet on top. “Far too little, to be honest.” She looks as frustrated by that as she knows the recipients are. She shuffles through the papers while she continues. “The truth is, without the scientist who did this work I may never fully know, but there are some things we suspect.”

 

She holds out two nearly identical pages, one dated three years prior and one dated today. “This is a basic cognitive function test we performed on Agent Barton. As you can see the two are essentially the same. We also repeated an IQ test with the same results. What this tells us is that other than his memories, his brain functions appear to be intact.” Pulling the papers back toward herself she powers on the tablet then turns it to face them. Multicolored images flashing by on a loop.

 

“This is a functional MRI, which lets us track active parts of the brain during different tasks. We don’t have a baseline scan for Agent Barton but these were obtained while he was doing the cognitive tasks I showed you. He has excellent function with these types of tests. However,” she taps on the tablet, and the picture changes. There’s a lot more red in the front of the scan which only seems to highlight an area in the middle which is pale yellow. “When we asked him to recall basic information about his past, such as his home town, his birth date, even his SHIELD ID number his frontal lobes light up. This means he is actively thinking very hard about the questions and trying to remember. But at the same time, he has decreased activity here, in the area we call the hippocampus. This is the memory center of the brain.” She pauses to let that sink in.

 

“So, they what? Burned out his memory?” Maria asks tentatively, like she’s afraid of the answer. Phil knows he is.

 

The doctor shakes her head. “I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so.”

 

She’s pulling up another multicolored scan, “Using the information from your debriefing about the last year, we have these results: see how there’s less red in the front and more orange and red in the center? This indicates he is able to recall information from the last year as memories, and not work as hard for it. So no, they didn’t burn it out, he’s able to form new memories.”

 

“What does that mean? He won’t remember his old life but will remember the last year?” Phil’s finally managed to unstick his jaw as his worst fears seem realized. If Clint will only remember Laura and the family he made in Wyoming, then this whole thing will only prove to be an exercise in heartbreak.

 

“That’s a very real possibility. But I have one more thing to show you.”

 

This scan is different shades of black and white and gray, with more detail in exchange for no colors. “This is a CT scan of Agent Barton’s brain. This is the memory center here in the middle. See this thin line, kind of curving out here towards the white of the skull bone? It’s leading to a small foreign body, about the size of a postage stamp, located just inside the bone. This is exactly beneath the new scar on Agent Barton’s head above his right ear. I think the scientists at AIM placed this device, and I think it’s interfering with his ability to access his memories.”

 

“Access? Meaning they’re still there?” Maria inquires, leaning even further forward to look intently at the tablet.

 

“This is all pretty hypothetical right now, but that’s what I think. These thin lines look like a series of electrodes. The brain is basically millions of tiny electrical signals interconnecting, and I believe the purpose of this device is to disrupt the signals going to and from the memory center. When Agent Barton tries to recall something from those parts of the hippocampus affected, the electrodes stop the signals from connecting.”

 

“Why can he remember the last year, then?” Phil’s hoping he doesn’t sound as bitter as he feels.

 

“The brain is plastic, meaning it grows and learns and changes depending on the input. Even though there’s a block, his brain has adapted and is finding ways to store new memories despite that.” She points at the scan again. “There doesn’t appear to be any structural damage here, and that makes me hopeful that the memories can be regained.”

 

“How?”

 

“Unfortunately, without a better understanding of this technology, I can’t disable it without removing it. That means I would have to do another craniotomy - another cut to the side of his head and remove the skull piece. This would allow me to access the device and I should be able to remove the wires as well.”

 

“What are the risks?”

 

“Re-operative surgery is always higher risk, especially if there is a lot of scar tissue. The usual risks of bleeding and infection are present, which in the brain can be deadly. There’s the risk of damage to other parts of the brain, especially with removal of the wires which are going through those areas. There’s also the chance that removal of the device doesn’t return his memories, or completely wipes them instead, including the last year. I don’t think that’s likely, but I can’t say with any certainty.”

 

Phil hangs his head, trying to balance the hope of getting Clint back against the risk for permanent brain damage. He’s been hoping that Clint will remember him and things will go back to the way they were, but now there’s a chance that Clint could lose everything again, including Laura. He could lose his chance to be safe and happy, even if that isn’t with Phil. God, he’s dangerously close to wishing Clint had just stayed missing.

 

Of course, that’s when Nick takes over. His voice is sure when he declares, “Do it.”

 

Phil turns on him sharply. “Don’t you think that should be his decision?”

 

Before Nick can respond beyond a stern-one eyed glare in Phil’s direction, the surgeon speaks up.

 

“Of course Agent Barton will have to consent to any procedure.” With a glance at Fury she adds firmly, “I will not operate on him without his express permission.”

 

***

 

Clint in a lot of ways is still Clint, so it’s not surprising when he says yes to surgery.

 

He faces it with humor, joking that he was meaning to get a haircut anyway. The team reassures him that they won’t need to shave his head this time while he signs the paper work.

 

“So what happens after surgery, Doc?”

 

Phil wonders if anyone else can see the tightening of Clint’s eyes, the way his smile firms on his face – telltale signs that the question’s not as offhand as it appears.

 

The surgeon takes a seat in a chair pulled up to the exam table Clint’s sitting on, his legs dangling off the edge. “Agent Barton, as I said when we discussed the procedure, this is all new territory. I can’t say that I know what waking up from surgery will be like for you. You may wake as Agent Clint Barton, memories fully intact. You may wake up without any memory at all, or still just the last year. But I suspect you will wake up remembering the last year and bits and pieces of your more distant past. Because there has been a block between your memories and your ability to see them, I think you will have to access those memories to recall them.”

 

“I’m a simple guy, tell it to me straight.” He gets the chuckle he was aiming for.

 

“What I’m saying is you may need to be prompted to realize you remember certain things, even though the information is there. For example, you may need to be asked for your birth date to recall it. While those are easy things, I am more worried about the big memories – if you see a person you recognize and worked with extensively in the past, if you recall the loss of someone you were once close to. Those kind of experiences can be like PTSD, or reliving the trauma all over again, and the overload may be dramatic. Or it may be nothing unless further prompted. It’s hard to say.”

 

“Ok. So how do we not fry my brain?”

 

“I’ve already spoken to Director Fury, and you will be read in on your history with one person before the procedure. That person will be present when you wake up, and because you’ll already have a large part of the history it should be easier. Then there will be a portfolio of carefully selected dates or missions and information that’s essential for you to remember. We will control how much you are exposed to at a time and monitor your reactions to prevent ‘frying your brain’.” She smiles at him in a way Phil thinks is supposed to be reassuring. “In addition, we suspect that after the first couple of days the reactions will even out, and be less severe.”

 

“Do I get to choose? I want Phil.” He looks up, and Phil can see Clint’s face fall when he reads the answer on Phil’s face. “I guess that’s a no, then.”

 

“I’m sorry, Clint,” and he is, but also somewhat relieved.

 

He’s a coward.

 

“I will be on mission at the time, so we’re going to have Natasha come with you. Do you remember meeting her?” He goes on when Clint nods. “You don’t recall it now but she is one of your closest friends here, and most trusted. I am, however, going to be in charge of putting together your reorientation package, and I promise your code name will be first thing at the top.”

 

“Damn straight.” Clint grins at him, not quite able to mask the hurt in his eyes but at least accepting of the situation. Phil hates himself for the lie. “So when are we doing this thing?”

 

“Our plan is to perform the procedure first thing Monday morning. In the meantime, you will need to see psych for your appointment this afternoon, and Director Fury has asked that you undergo various skills evaluations over the weekend.”

 

Clint groans dramatically, “Aw, psych, no…”

 

At least some things haven’t changed.

 

***

 

While Clint’s with psych, Phil heads to his office. The first thing he does is log onto his email. As expected Natasha has sent him a coded message – she’ll be back tomorrow. He sends a reply to meet in his office when she’s available and tries not to dread how that conversation will go.

 

That done he turns his attention toward making a schedule for the weekend. Nick wants Clint to do a full new-agent evaluation as a baseline, so Phil books private time on the obstacle course and the range, making sure that the session is with Ace. He emails Jasper to be Clint’s escort for the testing, not trusting himself to be around Clint that long without somehow making a fool of himself or making Clint uncomfortable.

 

With that in mind he makes his plan for the coming week. He doesn’t actually have a mission in place yet, but knows he can’t be here when Clint wakes and starts regaining his memories. The doctor’s words come back, and he can’t even imagine what kind of brain overload 15 years of working together, living together, nearly dying together, can do.

 

And if that didn’t fry Clint’s brain, Phil knows he would be biased towards their interactions. He likes to think it wouldn’t be intentional but he would try to sway Clint towards staying, towards forgetting the happiness he found with Laura. While he knows that’s his right as Clint’s husband, it feels wrong to pressure Clint when he already has to decide between the people he loves.

 

“Safe and happy,” he mutters under his breath, putting his signature to the final plan and reminding himself that’s the end goal.

 

To be out of the way and far from temptation, he will be acting as courier for some important, high clearance level documents to bases in Europe. It’s certainly something someone below his status could do but it’s also mindless, and he doesn’t trust himself to be involved in a mission that, if it goes wrong because of his distraction, could end in death for those depending on him.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon working through his backlog, clearing a few stacks from his desk. When he gets the call from psych to pick up Clint he shuts everything down before leaving, intending to head back to the apartment. He’s not surprised to find that Clint’s somewhat withdrawn but he doesn’t pry, just gestures for the man to follow him out of the building.

 

They walk in companionable silence towards the housing complex. About a block away Phil directs them to a corner bodega where they buy supplies for dinner and breakfast, enough to last the next few days. He lets Clint direct the shopping for the most part, adding a few of his own things to the cart.

 

Clint’s still uncharacteristically quiet when they get in, heading to the kitchen to unload the bags and start dinner. Phil can only imagine what kind of tangle psych has gotten him worked up into, especially with this situation. He wants to help, wants to draw Clint out from under the cloud hanging over his head, but it doesn’t feel like his place. They weren’t great at communication even before this mess, and he can’t think of anyway to help here without revealing more than he’s ready to.

 

So swallowing down his concern he goes to the bedroom to get changed and then drops into the armchair, leaving the couch for Clint. He’s into the second episode of Super Nanny before Clint joins him, quietly informing him that dinner will be ready in 30 minutes.

 

Phil settles for discretely keeping an eye on Clint while pretending to watch as Jo Frost institutes house rules and waits for it to all fall apart.

 

***

 

It’s mid-afternoon when Natasha silently slips into his office, closing the door behind her and taking the seat across from him. They each lean back in their chairs, waiting for the other to start.

 

“I heard you’ve had an interesting week.” She has one perfect eyebrow arched, though he can’t tell if it’s amusement or irritation. “Tell me.”

 

He knows it isn’t a request, but he still pauses, trying to find the words to explain. “He came in on his own, apparently some altercation which left him afraid he’s dangerous, so he sought out his past.”

 

He ignores her when she adds an unhelpful, “He is dangerous.”

 

“From what the doctors think, AIM inserted a device to block his ability to access his memories. They think the information is still there and can come forward if they remove the device. Surgery’s scheduled for Monday.”

 

“So for now?”

 

“He knows his true name and some basics about SHIELD, but otherwise he’s no different from when we saw him a few weeks ago. They’re hopeful that the procedure will restore his memories.”

 

“They’re hopeful, or you are?” She crosses her arms over her chest, giving him a piercing look. He gives it right back, unflinchingly.

 

“I am hopeful. Natasha, I want him back. I want Clint back. But it’s going to be a long and difficult process for him, and he could really use your help.”

 

“My help?”

 

He sighs and smoothes his tie with one hand, knowing she can see the tell but unable to stop himself. “It can’t be me.”

 

Her jaw tightens and she looks away. She may not fully understand but he can see her weighing the situation in her mind. On one hand, she may get her best friend back. On the other, she may be opening herself up to be overwhelmed by the heartache she’s been living with for the last year.

 

“I want to see him.” She’s turned back to him, and he nods then stands, motioning her out before him.

 

They walk silently towards the indoor track where Clint’s making his way through a modified obstacle course. It’s a physical challenge of climbing, crawling, balancing and jumping around the various obstacles scattered throughout the room. They’d decided on an indoor course because it’s easier to keep out the other agents than the large outdoor course, and Phil’s thankful for that foresight as he holds the door for Natasha to enter the observation box above the track.

 

She slowly approaches the one-way glass, finally making it into position to see the proceedings below. Maria and Jasper are there with a small team from medical and PT. As they watch, Clint’s making his way over the top of a rope net, starting down the opposite side. It’s easy to see the functional loss of muscle and stamina - he’s much slower than usual, struggling to get his feet out of the woven rungs as he goes down.

 

One thing that hasn’t changed is Phil’s reaction to seeing a sweaty, sleeveless Clint Barton focused on a task. It’s a sight of beauty, and he’s at risk of losing himself in the types of thoughts he’s been avoiding these last few weeks – this isn’t really Clint, not yet and maybe never again, and he needs to remind himself of that.

 

Natasha’s silent beside him for the few minutes it takes Clint to finish the course, silent as she watches him bent double, gasping for breath in a way he never has before. Silent as the medical staff reach him, handing him a water bottle and taking his other wrist to check his vitals. While the team putters around him, Clint suddenly looks up, gaze intent and focused on the mirrored glass like he can see through it. Phil hears her give a short, sharp intake of breath when Clint nods in their direction before turning back to the people around him.

 

Natasha watches for a few moments more before asking, “What do you need me to do?”

 

***

 

It’s late Sunday afternoon before Phil gets to see Clint again. After returning to his office to discuss the debrief packet with Natasha, he was called to oversee an op going south in Indonesia. It had been a long night with too much coffee and not enough answers before the needed breakthrough. While the agents on the ground worked on clean up, Phil’d managed to catch a couple hours of sleep in one of the available rooms at headquarters.

 

He’d been woken by a text from Jasper a little after 0900 to say the night with Clint had been fine, and they were on their way in for the next round of testing. It had also said quite a bit more about the disconcerting nature of spending the night with a stranger who has your friend’s face, but Phil hadn’t really been in the mood to commiserate at the time.

 

Being Sunday there was less new work to catch up on, so after he made it through the emergent and urgent paperwork, he turned to the next task. Arguably it was the most important of tasks, but he’d struggled to put his thoughts into print.

 

After all, how do you tell someone they’re your husband, you love them, but want them to make the decision that gives them the best chance to be happy? In the end he’d just started writing, hating every word as they filled the paper despite being exactly what he needed Clint to know.

 

With that done he goes to find Clint, watching as he finishes the last distance shooting test (last because the indoor range was only so long). It’s both familiar to watch him cluster his shots around the bulls eye, and odd given the bulky rifle compared to a bow. Once Clint gets the ok from the team to leave, Phil takes over and leads them out of SHIELD for the night.

 

After getting to the apartment, they order in soup as Clint isn’t supposed to have solids tonight, and nothing at all from when he goes to bed until after surgery. Once Phil’s paid, they settle into their respective places in the living room, cradling hot bowls in their hands.

 

The silence of two nights before is back, not uncomfortable but noticeable. He’s not sure what’s on the archer’s mind, and after a silent hour he gathers their leftovers and returns to the kitchen. On the way back, he grabs his bag from where it’s leaning against the wall.

 

Pausing in the entranceway, he steals a moment to just watch Clint, taking in the drawn eyebrows and pinched look around his mouth as he stares unseeing at the TV. At one time Phil would already have an idea of what’s bothering him, and it’s hard to have Clint this close and not really know him. This man who looks both so familiar and so different.

 

Taking another minute to study Clint, he finally enters the room, turning off the neglected TV and waiting for Clint to turn to him. Clint looks at the phone being held out before shaking his head and looking away.

 

“Clint? Don’t you want to talk to Laura?”

 

He shakes his head again. “No sense in making her worry.”

 

Clint looks so dejected and miserable that Phil makes an impulsive decision and sits down on the couch next to him, trying to provide what support he can.

 

“You don’t have to do this. You can go about your life. Live a long, happy life with a family.”

 

Clint shakes his head. “I need to know. When I go back to Laura and the kids I want them to know me, the real me. Seems only fair after everything they’ve given me.”

 

He seems to get lost in his thoughts again, which is fine by Phil because it feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest. _When I go back._ He knows that Clint’s saying so without all the information, but he can’t help feeling that it’s true. That Clint will get his memory back and still go, that the years of waiting for Phil won’t be enough when he already has a family he can call his own.

 

Something seems to snap inside him – the grief and fear become muted, leaving a heavy blankness accompanied by a sense of inevitability. It’s a feeling he’s familiar with, the slide into melancholy, but can’t find the strength to fight and isn’t sure he wants to anymore. It feels safer, the pain blunt in the pall of apathy.

 

He focuses on the papers held in his hand in order to pull his professionalism back in place.

 

“These are the files for you to review.” He stands, smoothing his tie as he goes. “I’m going to turn in. Remember, up at 0530, so get some rest.”

 

His tone must be more blunt than he intended, because Clint sits up like he’s been scolded. “Oh, of course, yeah. I’ll get through this and head to bed after.”

 

He puts his briefcase back by the door and is walking past the couch when Clint calls out to him once more. “Hey, Phil?”

 

“It’s just that, I guess I want to say thank you. You know, for finding me and helping me.” He’s rubbing a hand along the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture. “I mean, I don’t know if we were even friends before all this, so in case I forget tomorrow, thanks for everything.”

 

The words sound too much like a good bye. Unable to fully face the other man, Phil turns his head before replying, “We were friends, and I’ll still be your friend after. If you forget again—“ He swallows hard - the thought of Clint not remembering him again is terrifying enough to stab through and dissipate the cloud of indifference.

 

Clearing his throat he manages to continue, “I’ll remind you.” And then he’s hurrying away to the bedroom, shutting the door to grant himself at least temporary solitude.

 

***

 

“You know the best part about having a short term memory? Jokes are funny more than once.” Clint’s been full of quips all morning, using laughs and a cocky grin to cover up his nervousness. He’s tucked into the bed waiting, IV in place and wearing a hospital gown, which has been its own source of cheeky ridicule this morning.

 

“Hey did I tell you the one abo—‘

 

“Finish that sentence and I’ll knock you out without anesthesia.” Natasha’s voice is venom but her eyes are smiling, and Phil relaxes with the familiar banter between them. He’s glad for Natasha’s presence because Clint isn’t the only one holding tight to his nerves.

 

“You wound me, Rushman.” Clint’s not looking at her so he misses the way her smile falters. It’s part of the debrief packet they put together. While some of the mission and background information is true, a lot of it’s made up – it will serve as a proof of return of memories if Clint’s able to discern the difference. “Besides if my memory gets any worse I can start planning my own surprise parties.”

 

The comedy stops short when two women in scrubs enter the room. “Agent Barton? We’re ready for you.”

 

Clint’s eyes go wide and he pales.

 

Natasha must see how his smile goes tremulous because she grasps Clint’s hand, squeezing for just a moment before letting the nurses put up the railings on the bed and start moving it towards the door. By the time they start down the hall Clint’s recovered, and his voice drifts back towards them, sharing his newfound memory-related jokes with the staff.

 

Phil can only imagine what Natasha sees on his face, but she leans into him in a show of support. “He’ll be ok, Phil. I’ll take care of him.”

 

He nods, “I wish it could be me.”

 

“He’ll understand.”

 

“Will he?” he scoffs, his fear and hurt taking over for just a moment. Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulls out the letter he wrote. “When… if… when you think he’s ready…”

 

She takes the letter and secrets it away. “I’ll be in contact. And you have a Quinjet to catch.”

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of medical inaccuracy here, particularly the truncated recovery time. Just go with it, eh? Also quite a bit longer chapter here, enjoy!

 

 Chapter 23

 

There’s a pain above his right ear, dull and achy. Eyes still closed, he lifts his right hand to the spot, discovering a raised line hidden under his hair.

 

“If you’re done checking your luscious locks…”

 

His eyes spring open to find a bright room, white walls bright from the sunlight coming in through the windows. There’s a beautiful red-head sitting beside him, but her shoulders are tense despite the teasing words. There’s something familiar about her, and he knows he’s staring but he doesn’t look away, trying to place where he’s seen her before. Her face begins to close off when the silence stretches between them.

 

That dull, achy pain flares to life. He gives a soft cry as a flood of images flash behind his eyelids. The red-headed woman features prominently, and he’s quickly overwhelmed by a maelstrom of emotions that change as frequently as the images in his mind.

 

Humor as he walks beside her through a shopping mall. Fear mixing with hope as he looks at her over the pistol he has aimed at her head, her gaze tired and defeated despite the gun she has pointed right back at him. Terror as his own hands press against her side, blood leaking out around his desperate grasp. Camaraderie as they share a bottle of vodka, both of them bruised and sore. Surprise and joy when she hugs him, for what he thinks was probably the first time. There’s a lot of him staring at her from across a gym mat, and more of him watching her from afar. There’s a vision of them both dressed in black, guns held ready, and it feels right to be at her side, her at his. Friend. Partner. Trust. Love.

 

When he comes back to himself he’s hunched over his knees and gripping his head, the woman now standing in the doorway shouting for help. No, not just any woman.

 

“Tasha?” His voice is hoarse, more of a question than he’s comfortable with as the memories solidify in his mind. Years’ worth of them.

She turns toward him, eyes defensive and mouth tight. He swallows against a dry throat. “Natasha. Romanoff, not Rushman. Black Widow. You like your vodka cold, your coffee black, and the only thing you know how to cook is blini. Your favorite book is Harry Potter, and you once wished someone had come for you when you were eleven, taken you away from the Red Room.”

 

She shuts the door behind her, keeping out the staff trying to make their way in. There’s still a wariness in her expression, so he adds, “Jesus, Nat, that file they gave me was shit. We’ve never even been to Manila.”

 

It’s both beautiful and terrifying when her face splits in relief and tears build in the corners of her eyes. He hates it when she cries, but considering he can feel wetness on his own cheeks he doesn’t try to stop it, just reaches out a hand to her. She takes it and he pulls her into a hug, pressing his nose into her hair and whispering, “Nat, what the hell happened?”

 

She chokes on a humorless laugh and just holds onto him tighter for a few moments. When she pulls away he lets her go but she doesn’t go far, taking a seat on the bed. “That’s a long story.”

 

Before she can go on the door opens to admit a woman in scrubs. “Agent Barton? How do you feel?”

 

“Tired, and I have a headache.” That’s a bit of an understatement, especially as he’s getting more images now, of this woman – the doctor - explaining about a surgery and memory loss. “But I think it worked? I mean, I remember Natasha now, at least.”

 

The doctor smiles at him, “That’s excellent! Very good. I expect the headache is related to both the surgery and the work your brain’s doing trying to refit all these memories into place. Would you like something for the pain?” When he shakes his head, she approaches and pulls a penlight from her pocket. “Alright, but if it gets worse or you change your mind let the nurses know. Is it alright if I do an exam now?”

 

He spends the next few minutes getting a light shone in his eyes, making funny faces, following commands, and doing short cognitive exams. When she finishes she warns him that they will need to repeat the exams every four hours or so, but that everything seems to be going as expected for now. “I’ll leave you with Agent Romanoff. She will start going over the re-orientation packet with you. Try not to go too far today, and if you have worsening of your pain you should stop for a while. It’s important to not overload your system all at once.”

 

She leaves, and Natasha settles into the bedside chair again with an open binder over her lap. He remembers the discussion they had a few days ago, about how no one’s entirely sure how to go about this but the plan’s for him to get a series of prompts and see if he can remember the rest on his own.

 

“Ready?” She waits for his nod before starting at the top.

 

“Codename?”

 

“Hawkeye.”

 

“Given name?”

 

“Clinton Francis Barton.”

 

“Date of birth?”

 

It goes on and on, starting easy, though even that isn’t without it’s bumps. When she asks him for the names of his parents and brother, he’s briefly overwhelmed by anger and resentment and betrayal. The memory of his brother walking away after burying a knife in his gut is particularly powerful, and the phantom pain takes his breath away.

 

The emotional pain is equally profound - for a few minutes it’s hard to distinguish this hospital bed from another, years away, like it was just yesterday his brother left him for dead. Nat holds his hand while he shakes, and it helps to keep himself grounded.

 

Eventually he’s able to settle the memories back into place so they can move forward. They make it through his early years after the death of his parents, the foster parents and orphan’s home with minimal fuss, but by the time they get to Carson’s Circus and his ‘training’ under the Swordsman he’s worn out and shaky.

 

He’s never really said too much about that time to Natasha, so he isn’t surprised when she doesn’t push him on it and just declares that it’s time to break for dinner. She’s standing up to go find them food while he’s still running through the memories like a bad dream, grateful for her tact. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, and he’s sure she can guess at what he experienced, but they don’t talk about it. The only person he’s ever told was Phil, because he felt he had a right to understand before they went too far into their relationship.

 

He gasps as pain erupts in his head, like a thousand bombs going off all at once. Oh, oh no.

 

Phil’s been there on the edge of his memory of the last few days, a calm, reassuring presence. But Clint hasn’t really considered why Phil being present was both comforting and natural, so natural in fact that his brain never even considered him to be separate from Clint. He hasn’t even considered _who_ Phil is.

 

“Phil…” He can’t focus on anything as images stream by all out of order. He can barely hear Natasha even though she’s right in front of him, gripping his shoulders and shaking him.

 

“Clint, stop. You aren’t ready. Clint? Clint!”

 

It’s too late, he’s too far gone.

 

Phil offering him a hand, even as the other still holds the gun that put a bullet through his thigh. Phil’s kind eyes and smile, late nights in Phil’s office sharing take out, Phil at his bedside when he wakes up in medical. Their first kiss and their first fight, cooking and laughing and working and waking up together, Phil’s face during their heart to heart on that picnic table in Wyoming.

 

“Oh God…”

 

The pain in his head doesn’t even compare to the agony in his chest, his heart trying to beat its way free. He’s going fully into a panic attack by the time help arrives, his breathing speeding up until he’s a gasping, shaking mess on the bed. There’s blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision, and he’s not sure if it’s from the lack of oxygen or from whatever the nurse just injected into his IV but he’s grateful when the images finally slow and he sags into Natasha’s arms.

 

“Phil…” he sobs once more on his way to being unconscious.

 

***

 

Waking takes a long time, and even when he opens his eyes it feels like he’s swimming against a current to stay awake. There’s the dull ache in his head but the splitting pain is gone, for which he’s thankful. Staring at the ceiling he thinks back to just before the medications kicked in.

 

Phil, his most trusted companion, his best friend, his lover, his husband. The man whose heart must have been breaking this whole time. Guilt and disgust are warring for dominance as he remembers exactly how he spent the last year, and it’s made worse when the thought of Laura and the kids reignites the longing he feels to see them again. It’s no wonder Phil couldn’t stand to be here.

 

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” He doesn’t bother turning to look at Natasha. “Clint, don’t do this to yourself.”

 

He scoffs, but with the drugs in his system it’s weak. “Do what, Natasha? Feel like the biggest jerk on the planet? Maybe you could have popped up with that advice before I qualified for worst husband of the century?”

 

“Cute. I see you’ve found your terrible sense of humor again.”

 

Anger flares inside him but he only manages a feeble glare in her direction, “This isn’t funny, Nat! I can’t believe Phil could stand to be around me the last few days, and it’s no wonder he’s gone now. He must hate me.”

 

“Don’t be stupid!” She sits forward pushing a finger into his chest. “He loves you and he’s not here because he was trying to prevent more harm coming to you. We were all afraid what seeing him would do to you, and considering your response yesterday we were correct to worry.”

 

That makes him pause. “Yesterday?”

 

“Yes. They had to sedate you after your reaction, and decided to keep you under overnight to let you rest. I’m sure you can feel the drip they still have you on – they felt it was safer to leave the meds at a low level while we work through this.”

 

“‘This’ being the tragedy of my life?”

 

“Clint, please.” He finally looks at her, really sees her. Takes in the lines around her eyes and the dark circles under them, the tight set of her frown and slope of her shoulders, like they’re beginning to bow under a tremendous weight.

 

Guilt overtakes the anger as he tries to imagine what the last year must have been like for her, thinking him dead and trying to support Phil. The uncertainty of his return which even now he’s making a mess of. He knows she struggles with the emotional stuff - her training from the Red Room makes it difficult for her to connect, but she comes the closest with him and Phil. And even though she struggles showing her affection and concern, he knows she feels deeply nevertheless.

 

With a sigh he relents, tucking away his grief.

 

“Where were we?”

 

Turns out there isn’t much left to relearn. With nearly the entirety of his adult life spent at Shield, and the majority of that time with either Phil, Natasha, or both, the important memories are already accounted for. The little things and everyday interactions that set the tone for his relationships with his co-workers they suspect will filter in over time and exposure. He still has no recollection of his capture or the time he was at the AIM facility prior to waking up with the new scar on his head, and probably never will.

 

They make it through the rest of the binder by midday, and the doctors agree to stop the medication drip. Once the drugs have worn off Natasha suggests lunch and he realizes how hungry he actually is – he hasn’t taken more than some water since the night before surgery.

 

After being stuck in this bed for two days he manages to convince the medical staff to clear him for a shower and a trip to the cafeteria. When he comes back from the adjoined bathroom he finds a packed duffel bag on his bed. It contains clothes - jeans and t-shirts and his own scuffed boots, a pair of sunglasses and his favorite shooting glove. The novel from his nightstand at home is there, bookmark dutifully keeping place even after all these months.

 

Knees shaking, he sits heavily on the bed with the book in hand. He knows this was packed by Phil, complete in a way Phil tends to be, and yet for the life of him he can’t interpret the gesture. It’s probably his own guilt but he can’t help thinking that this is a parting gift, a go-bag with just enough pieces of his life that he won’t need to return to the house himself.

 

The enormity of the situation hits him all at once and it’s too much. For a minute he wishes he still had the numbing of the meds because his mind’s racing, his heart pounding in his ears. Everything’s a mess – he barely remembers who he is, his husband’s rightfully avoiding him, he loves a family that isn’t his, and yet the thing that’s done him in is this carefully packed bag.

 

He startles hard when there’s a brisk knock on the door, the book falling from his hands to the floor. Thankfully it breaks the vicious cycle of guilt and self-recrimination enough to allow him to finish getting dressed and head out to meet Nat.

 

Natasha helps to distract him by sharing the SHIELD gossip he’s missed, including how Jasper finally asked Maria out. He learns he won the office pool for birth day and weight of Stacy-from-records’ baby, but that Phil claimed his winnings for him and gave it back to the young family in the form of a gift card. It’s so like Phil that Clint swallows against a sudden thickness in his throat and he physically _aches_ for his husband, even as he feels unworthy of ever being in the same room as Phil again. Natasha seems to sense his distress, and instead of offering useless platitudes they walk the rest of the way in silence.

 

It’s late and well past the lunch rush so the cafeteria’s mostly empty, or as empty as it ever is during the day. They go through the line and find a table against the far wall.

 

Whispers and flat out stares follow them as they go, and Clint thinks it’s embarrassing that these people can call themselves spies. They eat in silence, ignoring the curiosity by settling into Hawkeye and Black Widow, impassive under the scrutiny. It’s actually a relief to sink into his sniper mind set, emptying his head of everything in order to focus on the task at hand. Not that he needs all of that focus to keep a straight face and eat, but he devotes himself anyway as it keeps away the guilt and doubt and grief.

 

They return to Medical after lunch, where he’s put through a new round of scans. After another exam he’s told he’s free to check out of the hospital wing but needs to stay on base for now. He’s also informed of his appointment with psych the next morning at 0800, and he barely hides the dread that fills him at the thought of delving into the effects of the whole mess on his psyche.

 

In the end, there’s not much for him to pack. He takes the duffel bag and Natasha’s binder with him to the temporary quarters he’s been assigned, dropping them both on bed. He frowns when their combined weight doesn’t even start to indent the mattress, leaving the hospital corners pristine. Standard issue SHIELD slab bedding. Suddenly he’s hit with the sense memory of waking in a soft bed with a warm body pressed against his, soft hair tickling his nose. With a sharp intake of breath he manages to push away the image before he can inspect it closely enough to identify who was with him.

 

Blowing out the same breath he shifts his eyes around the small space, careful not to look at the bed again. Despite the doctor’s emphasis on getting rest, it only takes a few seconds for the walls of his new quarters to feel too close, and he turns on heel to leave again.

 

He finds Natasha in the hall, leaning against the wall with arms crossed over her chest like she was waiting for him. She hardly has to glance at his face before she frowns, nods, and turns to lead him down the hall.

 

When they get to the range, the few agents there take a look at their faces and decide they have somewhere better to be, leaving the lanes empty. Ace comes out to meet them, and Clint feels relief wash through him when he’s handed a long black case.

 

“Thought you might be missing this.” Ace gives them a short nod of the head and then he too disappears.

 

The bow feels both familiar and foreign in his hands; the calluses he’d spent years building are all but gone. He frowns when he has to tighten the strap of his quiver, the loss of body mass evident from both his chest and back. It’s even worse when he steps up to the line and finds he can barely handle the draw – his muscles are weak and neglected, and his shots are sloppy. After half a dozen arrows he puts the bow away in disgust, not feeling worthy of the weapon.

 

Natasha seems to have predicted his dilemma and laid out a series of hand guns and clips while he struggled, so he loses himself in the familiar kickback of a standard issue Glock.

 

After a few hours he feels more in control of himself, tired and sore but calm. The calmness falters a bit when he contemplates heading back to the quiet, close walls of his quarters.

 

Natasha takes a long look at him, catching the minute shake in his hands where he’s cleaning his guns, and he just knows she’s seeing everything he’s trying desperately to suppress. She blows out a quiet breath and then she’s leading him outside before taking him on a two-mile jog around the compound. He’s slow, gasping for air after the first mile and while mercy isn’t in Natasha’s nature she does stay with him until he pants his way back to the start. She puts him through an hour of weights before finally letting him crawl back to his room, take out from the cafeteria tucked under his arm.

 

She leaves him alone with a kiss to the cheek and drops a cell phone into his pocket. He eats as quickly as his sore body will allow, standing up at the counter for fear he’ll never get up again if he sits. After eating he lets a hot shower start easing out the kinks and by the time he’s done he can barely lift his arms, so he just throws on a pair of boxers and crawls into bed.

 

It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit before he can force himself to move to turn off the light, and he’ll deny forever the whine that leaves his mouth while turning onto his side to reach for the bedside lamp. He’s still trying to coax his arm into straightening out to reach the switch when he pauses – there’s an envelope leaning against the base, addressed to him in Phil’s familiar slanting scrawl.

 

There’s an odd stuttering sensation in his chest as he stares at the white paper, running a finger reverently around the edge before drawing it closer. Flipping it over he notes that it’s still sealed; Phil’s signature running the edge of the flap remains unbroken.

 

He makes no move to open the letter - he isn’t ready for what it contains. Instead he returns the letter to where it was propped against the lamp and turns off the light. The glow from under the door just barely illuminates the front, and he stares at his name in Phil’s writing. Exhaustion pulls him into sleep quickly, before he can think too hard about Phil or Laura or the situation he’s found himself in.

 

***

 

The next few days pass much the same way, and he gratefully finds himself too distracted to do much more than exist. Medical and psych appointments take up much of the morning and early afternoon, then Natasha finds him. She shows her support by kicking his ass one way or the other until dinner, leaving him too tired and sore to think about much except getting himself showered and to bed. By the weekend, he’s at least able to center a dozen arrows on a target, but it takes him an embarrassing long time to do so.

 

It’s Sunday, so he doesn’t have to worry about dealing with Medical today, and Natasha has already taken her pound of flesh and left him to lick his wounds in peace. She’d warned him she’d be by to get him for dinner, letting him know in her own way that even if he needs to fall apart she’ll come back to put him together again.

 

It’s more reassuring than he’d like to admit. She’s always been better at showing support through her actions than drawn out emotional conversation, and he’s never been so thankful for that than he is currently.

 

After a shower and a shave, he decides it’s time to start reengaging with the rest of the world. He’s put off calling Laura long enough, and even if he still doesn’t know what to say to her, he’s hoping to talk to Lila and Cooper, to let their innocent enthusiasm help ground him. In the end it’s both a relief and a disappointment when the ringing ends in the tone for the voice mail, but he thinks he manages to sound upbeat when he says he ‘misses them and will try again soon’.

 

That done he tucks the phone into the pocket of his jeans and pulls on a hoodie. It’s not entirely clear if he’s allowed to leave base on his own yet or not, so he decides to bypass security. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, after all.

 

His first stop is a barbershop, because even though he’s glad they didn’t need to shave his hair for surgery he’s still in need of a trim. The city seems so different from just a week ago when everything was new and he was at risk of getting lost around each corner. Now he makes his way from task to task, confident and sure.

 

The confidence deserts him when he arrives at his final destination. He’d checked the flight manifests before leaving base so he knows Phil isn’t due back until tomorrow, but he still watches the house for a while before approaching the front door. He lets himself in with the keys he’d found in his locker, disabling the security system with his thumbprint.

 

The air inside smells somewhat stale, which isn’t really a surprise given that Phil’s been gone for about a week at this point, maybe longer if he didn’t make it back while he was babysitting Clint the first few days. Closing the door behind him he looks around, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders at finally being home. The home he and Phil had searched for months to find and finally won the bidding war for, the place he’d looked forward to coming to find Phil after he’d been away for a mission.

 

He’s a little surprised to see his jackets still hanging on the hooks in the front hall where he’d left them, his shoes on the rack covered with dust. Looking around he finds not much has changed overall, and it’s both reassuring and a little alarming. There’s an air of neglect about the place, and only the couch and coffee table show signs of recent use. Everything else is layered with dust or too perfectly untouched to not be intentional. It’s hard to think of Phil neglecting the place like this - he can only imagine the kind of despair Phil must have been feeling to do so and his chest tightens at the thought.

 

Suppressing the emotions that accompany that thought, he refocuses and heads further into the house, crossing the living room to investigate the papers scattered over the surface of the coffee table. Picking up the nearest one he finds a list of apartments for rent, and a glance tells him most of the other papers are the same. There’s an open notebook next to the advertisements with a list of dates and times which he can only presume are appointments to view the places. Each address has a list of pros and cons next to them – close to work, near the subway, laundry in unit, doorman, natural light, small kitchen. It goes on and on.

 

Gathering up all the papers and the notebook he straightens them into one pile, turns it upside down and puts it back in place.

 

He refuses to consider any further the evidence that Phil’s planning to move, and instead heads to the kitchen. There’s a stack of coffee cups in the sink and a couple utensils, and when he opens the dishwasher it’s to find dirty dishes mixed in with the clean.

 

Opening the fridge, he’s not the least bit surprised to find it essentially empty except for condiments, some old take out containers, and an expired carton of milk. With a fond shake of the head he sets about throwing away the take out and then holds his breath while he empties the carton down the sink and rinses it. That done he empties the bags of groceries he’d brought with him – fresh fruits and veggies, yogurt and cereal, cheese and ham, eggs and bread, milk and coffee. He’d even gotten a couple of Phil’s favorite pre-made meals from the little Italian place around the corner; meat lasagna and manicotti and chicken cacciatore.

 

Next, he rinses out the coffee mugs and tries to clean the silverware but there’s food caked on some of the forks. Leaving one mug filled with soapy water to soak the utensils, he loads the rest into the dishwasher and starts it running, flipping the little magnet to “clean.” Then he adds the milk carton to the over flowing recycling bin before taking out both the trash and the recycling.

 

Tasks complete he looks around one last time. He tries to ignore the feeling that he doesn’t belong here anymore, that he doesn’t fit. It feels like he’s intruding.

 

He shakes his head, trying to shake off the dour thoughts. It doesn’t matter in the end, he’s here to make sure Phil’s taken care of in what minimal way he’s currently able. Phil managed to overcome whatever feelings and heartache must have been weighing him down in order to help Clint last week, and the least Clint can do is drop off some groceries without having a break down.

 

He leaves a note on the coffee table, on top of the overturned classifieds, saying he will make contact soon. Then, making sure to reset the security system, he leaves. On the front step he pauses to take a deep breath of fresh air, then tucks the hood up around his neck to protect from the chilly autumn air as he starts the walk.

 

When he makes it back to SHIELD he goes in through the front, managing a convincing smirk at the irritated looks from security when they inform him he wasn’t supposed to leave alone. He makes a detour up to the twelfth floor and breaks into the last office on the left. It takes a few minutes but eventually he’s able to jimmy open the lock on the desk and pulls open the second drawer, finding the little box right where it always is.

 

Sitting down in Phil’s chair he opens the top, blowing out a little breath when he sees his wedding ring still in its place.

 

The band’s cool when it slips onto his left ring finger, still a perfect fit despite all these months away. He can’t help but stare at his hand for a few moments as an odd sort of peace settles over him, a sense that while things are in shambles now, it will all turn out alright. After all, they’d promised years ago to stand by each other’s side no matter what, and this ring is just an embodiment of that promise.

 

Setting everything back the way it was, he heads back to his quarters, deciding on a nap until dinner. When Natasha comes to collect him she almost immediately spots the ring, raising an eyebrow at him but otherwise saying nothing. He appreciates her tact, because there’s both nothing and far too much to say to start that conversation.

 

They make it all the way through dinner and are on the way back to his quarters before she brings the proverbial elephant in the room up at all. It’s the first time she’s purposefully brought up Phil since Clint had that panic attack in medical.

 

“Phil comes home tomorrow.” She just leaves it out there, not necessarily pressuring him to pick up the thread but he knows it’s a challenge anyway.

 

“I know. I’ll talk to him.” He neglects to say when, but given the side-eye glare, he suspects she knows it.

 

They stop outside his door and she turns to look him in the eye. “Just be fair to him, but be fair to yourself, too.”

 

Clint just barely holds back a flinch. He’s been working through the guilt he feels with psych, actually investing in the sessions. Dr. Brown had seemed shocked during their first appointment, and Clint can’t blame him – usually Clint would sit through the hour silently, not particularly keen on having anyone else inside his head. But there’s too much at stake here to not participate, to not take the help sorting through this mess when he himself has no idea where to start. He knows all of this isn’t his fault, but knowing that in his brain has not yet translated to feeling it. Everything feels off kilter, like he stands to ruin the lives of so many people he cares deeply about if he plays this wrong.

 

He’s starting to get lost in his worries when Natasha lays a hand on his arm and squeezes, bringing him back to the present before leaving him alone without another word. Sighing he opens the door and enters the small space, noticing more than usual how tight and cramped it is after his visit to the house this afternoon.

 

It’s early but he goes about getting ready for bed anyway, sliding under the covers with the letter in his hands. The edges are crinkled after being handled so much in the last week, but the seal remains intact.

 

Bracing himself with a deep breath in, he slides a knife under the top edge of the envelope, pulling out the paper filled with Phil’s writing. The familiar sloping words sooth his nerves as he settles back against the wall and begins to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not perform vigorous exercise days after major surgery - it would make your surgeon very upset. This is fiction so Clint can get away with it. 
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> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of went a little backwards here to go forward... Fair warning I made a lot of changes to this after some content recommendations from one of my Betas, so any errors are mine!

Chapter 24

 

_Clint,_

_First, let me apologize for not being there after your surgery. While it’s true the doctors thought it would be unwise, I’ll admit that I didn’t fight them: I’m afraid this procedure won’t work the way we hope, and that I’ll lose you completely. I’m equally afraid this will work, and I will still lose you._

_I don’t want you to blame yourself for anything that happened while you were away – I’m glad to know you weren’t alone. I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t bring you home when I first found you, but it has nothing to do with fault or blame. The short answer is you were safe and happy. By now you’ll recall your life has not been easy, and while I will apologize for not letting you be part of the decision making, I will not apologize for trying to spare you those memories._

_I don’t know where we go from here. You have a lot of hard choices to make and I don’t envy you, but I will support you whatever you decide. Please, Clint, please take the time to make the right decision for you and to be sure, whichever way you choose._

_I’ll be waiting when you’re ready._

_Phil_

 

 

Phil rereads the words carefully. There’s so much more he wants to say, needs to say, but can’t. Can’t put his feelings into words, can’t make promises that may turn out to be obsolete, can’t give himself so completely when he’s not sure there’s enough of him left.

 

If reads flat, even to him.

 

With a gusty sigh he throws down the pen in frustration and leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. How do you tell someone they’re loved if they don’t understand, can’t remember why? Even if Clint’s memories are restored, will he remember what they shared between them beyond the emotionless facts? Will he remember what he felt for Phil, or will what he’s developed with Laura overshadow the past? Can he ever comprehend what he meant to Phil?

 

It’d taken years for Phil to make Clint realize that he wasn’t just a convenient partner. For someone who could exude cockiness, Clint had a terrible sense of self worth, beaten into him by his father and brother and a handful of other assholes. He’d never readily believed Phil when he made declarations, when he tried to reassure him with words. It’d taken years of showing Clint, of reminding him he was worthy and that he was cared for. That Phil’s respect and admiration for the man started months before they’d even met, when Phil was tasked with finding and eliminating the elusive mercenary Hawkeye. That the years spent working together strengthened that admiration and slowly evolved into something more, not because of some kind of Stockholm-esque response but because Clint deserved to be loved. That it was a surprise and yet not when Phil realized that he’d fallen for the archer somewhere along the way. Because Phil felt lucky to have Clint in his life. Because the years they’d spent together were full of events, big and small, that just made Phil fall ever more in love with Clint.

 

Maybe that’s the answer. Letting the memories speak for themselves rather than words that alone would be meaningless.

 

Picking up the pen Phil pauses with the point just above the paper, mind racing through the years. In the end he settles on a short post script that he hopes will help Clint remember how Phil feels about him.

 

_These won’t be in that binder: 04-09/1990; 10/1992; 06/03/1993; 09/1995; 09/12/1998; 04/15/1999; 9/12/1999; 5/03/2002; 08/17/2005_

 

That done, Phil folds the page and seals it in an envelope, addressing it to Clint. He presses his hand over the letters as if he could make Clint feel the pressure of his hand through the words alone, and he lets his mind drift.

 

***

 

_Apr-Sep 1990_

 

Phil looks up as Nick enters his office without knocking, raising an eyebrow in question and annoyance.

 

“I want this taken care of, last week. He’s giving me a headache.” The words are accentuated by the fall of a thin file onto the desk, overlying the form he’s reviewing.

 

With a pointed look at the to-do piles stacked on his desk, Phil pulls the file towards himself and opens it. There’s a grainy picture on the inside cover of what appears to be a young man. The hood of his jacket is pulled over his head and this is clearly a zoomed in copy of an original picture taken at a much greater distance. Glancing over the photo once more, he then turns his attention to the page opposite. Apparently the image is supposed to be Hawkeye, infamous mercenary and assassin.

 

There isn’t much information held between the covers of the folder - it only takes him a minute to read through what’s there and then he turns back to Nick. “Why the sudden interest?”

 

“He just cost us the Sabello op. Director Pierce is up my ass and I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

 

Phil closes the file and moves to hand it back, “Neither do I. Send a STRIKE Team.”

 

It’s been a long time since Phil has managed to tell Nick ‘no’. Since becoming Assistant Director, Nick has been something of a terror – he’s become so instrumental in so many different projects that Phil suspects he’s lost sight of the nuances of each. His strength had once relied on knowing the people behind the pieces he moves around the giant chessboard of SHIELD ops, but recently he’s been all brute force and no strategy.

 

Phil will be damned if he’s going to get involved in it, especially when he has his own backlog to get through.

 

Fury stares back with his one eye, mouth uncharacteristically silent. When Phil shrugs and turns back to his own work Nick sighs dramatically and shuts the door before taking the uncomfortable visitor’s chair in front of Phil’s desk.

 

“I can’t find him. His file has been on the top of my desk for months and I can’t figure the bastard out. He’s popping up all over the place in some of our biggest ops, and we still don’t even have a picture of the guy.” The frustration in Nick’s voice is clear.

 

Phil can see where this is going but tries to ignore him, even when Nick rests his forearms on the desktop to lean forward and poke a thick finger at the file. “I need the best on this, Phil. I need you.”

 

Rolling his eyes at the form he’s bent over, Phil continues to ignore his friend.

 

“Fine, you take this and I’ll drop those PR 690’s onto someone else’s desk.”

 

Forcing himself not to jump at the opportunity to get out of the forms, Phil slowly sits up and caps his pen, then picks up the form he just signed off on and adds it to the done pile, which he stacks on the much taller to-do piles. Then he pushes the whole lot across his desk at Nick and picks up the Hawkeye folder, leaning back in his chair. He raises a dismissive eyebrow at Nick, but they’re both smiling as Nick gathers up the arms full of papers to give to some other hapless agent.

 

“You drive a hard bargain, Cheese. Glad you’re on our side.”

 

\--

 

Six hours and two cups of coffee later, Phil hasn’t added a whole lot to the thin file on Hawkeye, but he has drawn a slightly different conclusion about the man.

 

Looking into the Sabello mission, he found that Hawkeye had “blown the op” quite literally – he’d blown up a warehouse full of designer drugs which the cartel was selling to minors. Just after that he’d taken out the top three members of the group, making off with nearly $100,000 in cash. SHIELD had been hoping to follow Frank Sabello to his much more elusive brother, who was involved in black market arms and most recently was making noise about moving the raw ingredients for nuclear weapons. It was definitely a blow to the SHIELD team involved, but Phil can’t find it in himself to be too sorry, given the list of teenagers who had died from the drugs tacked to the back of the file.

 

Looking back over the last six months he found that Hawkeye had disrupted three major SHIELD ops, though mostly on the periphery – he’d assassinated Michael Cretin, a business man who often travelled abroad and apparently liked to bring back souvenirs in the form of young girls. SHIELD had been waiting to grab him when he made it to customs with his newest acquisition, but Hawkeye had stopped him from ever taking possession. Moreover, without governmental red tape, Hawkeye had been able to go after the host group and reunited an additional twelve children with their families.

 

Other times, Hawkeye just happened to be operating in the same city as SHIELD, which can be tricky when dealing with skittish felons – assassination of a fellow criminal tended to put the rest on edge. Intrigued, Phil dug further, finding other confirmed Hawkeye targets over the past three years and finding a pattern. The man seemed to limit himself to the scum of the earth, men and women involved in trafficking, smuggling, and drugs mostly. It’s unclear if these hits were all self-motivated or just the types of jobs he was willing to take.

 

As he was reading the newspaper clipping on the mysterious death of a well-liked local coach (who turned out to be abusing the boys he was fostering) his eye caught on the heading of the next article: “Generous donation to the Anna Merkle’s Home for Boys.” The anonymous donation, in cash, caught his attention. Searching back through the papers scattered over his desk and cross referencing on the internet, he soon found a pattern.

 

Jesus, they were dealing with a real-life Robin Hood, here.

 

\--

 

He spent most of the month finding as much information about the archer as he could, filling a binder when his notes outgrew the confines of that narrow file folder. Five months later he finally sat down across from the man who had most intrigued him since Captain America himself, held out his hand to the impossibly young archer, and offered him a job.

 

***

 

_October 1992_

 

Six days spent in a sweltering safe house without air conditioning should have felt longer. While Phil wouldn’t exactly say he’s enjoying himself, and there are certainly other places he’d like to be, he has to admit it could be much worse.

 

Going into day six of living practically on top of one another in a four hundred square foot bungalow, tensions are high but not unbearable. He’s sitting at the tiny table in the kitchen with his tablet, but instead of work he’s watching Barton. The archer has taken to making them dinner each night with supplies from the pantry and the groceries they’d bought expecting a much shorter stay. Barton’s dancing to a tune in his own head, shoulders and hips moving to a rhythm only he can hear. Phil can’t help but compare the ruggedly handsome, muscular man in front of him to the skinny boy with a bullet wound in his thigh he’d first met.

 

But the transformation hasn’t just been physical – the man’s less guarded than he was. Not to say he’s very open, but he’s less aggressively standoffish to those around him. In the last six days they’ve managed to build on their tentative friendship, based on shared sweat-drenched misery and misplaced adrenaline, dinners worked until they barely resemble the can they came from, and teaching each other new card games with a battered deck missing the 7 of hearts.

 

The tablet in his hand alerts him to an incoming message, and Phil smiles in relief. “Barton, how does going home sound?”

 

“But sir, I’m just about to finish my take on chicken tikka!” He’s already turning off the burners though. “Our guy show up?”

 

“Three hours to get into position. You make the shot by midnight and I’ll get you Indian when we get home.”

 

\--

 

Of course it didn’t go as planned. They managed to take out the target, but they hadn’t expected one of his body guards to have an RPG, and Phil got hit by the shrapnel. Extraction came quickly after that and Phil’s now ‘resting’ in medical after the docs pulled a shard from his left thigh; they want him to stay overnight, and he’s flipping through channels on the TV when there’s a knock on the door.

 

He’s surprised when it’s Barton who sticks his head around the edge, entering when beckoned. There’s a plastic bag in his hand, rows of ‘thank you’ printed up the sides.

 

“Hey, Boss, thought I’d make good on those dinner plans, if you’re up to it?” He ducks his head as he holds out the bag, and Phil can smell the enticing scent of rich curry.

 

Motioning the archer to come further in, he uses the bed controls to raise the head into more of a sitting position, suppressing a wince as it jostles his leg. Clint hands him a container of rice and chicken curry before settling on the window sill with his own meal. It’s quiet but comfortable as they eat, neither feeling it necessary to break the silence until Clint finishes his meal and stands to throw away the packaging.

 

“So how’s the leg, Boss?”

 

“You had your hands in my groin for an hour to keep me from bleeding out. I think you can call me Phil,” he says slowly, contemplating this step as he makes it and hoping he isn’t overstepping Barton’s comfort zone.

 

He needn’t have worried, because a moment later he’s getting a wide smile and being told, “Clint, then.”

 

***

_June 6, 1993_

 

“Really, Cheese?” Phil doesn’t look up when Nick joins him at the conference room table where they’ve just dismissed the team after debrief.

 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to. And I have work to do, so if that’s all?” He writes faster, trying to put an end to this conversation.

 

“Your evaluation of Barton suggests he was ‘too enthusiastic in his role, becoming compromised by the target.’” He says reading from a paper in his hands. “It was a honey pot mission, Phil! He was supposed to become ‘compromised,’ and he did a damn find job of it, too. We’ve been after Jamieson for almost a year and Barton managed to get what he needed after one night!”

 

“He was supposed to flirt with the target and secure a second meeting, not jump into bed with him. We weren’t prepared for the change in situation.”

 

“We weren’t prepared, or you weren’t?” Phil ignores him. “Come on, Cheese, you should be commending Barton, not condemning him. Or you could just try asking him out already.”

 

He jerks his head up at that, meeting Nick’s eye in confusion. Nick lets out a whistle of surprise, followed by a laugh. “Jesus, you don’t even know how bad you have it for that boy, do you?”

 

“He’s not a boy.” It’s a lame response, but he’s still reeling from what his friend’s suggesting.

 

Nick laughs again, heading towards the door. “Green’s not a good color on you, Phil.”

 

***

 

_September 1995_

 

Phil opens the door expecting the Chinese delivery he’d ordered, but stops short when he finds Clint Barton on his door step. His traitorous libido takes note of the leather jacket, dark jeans, tight in all the right places, and the hopeful smile on the man’s ruggedly handsome face before he stomps it ruthlessly into submission.

 

His anger comes back shortly thereafter, buffered by the bruising still evident under Clint’s right eye and the stiff set of his shoulders. While he looks much better than the last time Phil saw him in person – bloodied, limping, and handcuffed as he was escorted off a quinjet – he’s still a long way from healed.

 

Phil shuts the door and returns to the couch.

 

He’s staring at the blank screen of his TV, arms crossed tightly across his chest and jaw tight while he listens to Clint pick the lock. When Clint comes in he sets the delivery bag on the coffee table, and Phil has to work hard to not reminiscence about the nights they’d spent here together, watching movies and eating crappy takeout. About the times when Clint would sit right here beside him on the couch, slowly moving closer as the months went on, their smiles lingering a bit longer and glances becoming heavy.

 

By the time he shakes off the memories, Clint has settled kitty-corner and is facing him, bent forward over his knees and looking at his feet. The silence spreads between them like a gulf.

 

“Well, if that’s all, you’d best be going.” It sounds pathetically childish but he doesn’t care, he can’t face Clint right now.

 

“Phil, please…”

 

“Agent Barton, I would appreciate it if you left. We can have this conversation at another time in a supervised setting at SHIELD Headquarters.” He isn’t prepared for Clint to get angry, thought that was his role in this farce.

 

“Obviously I can’t because you’ve been ignoring me for weeks!” He isn’t shouting, but there’s force to his words, even though he’s still addressing his feet instead of Phil.

 

“I haven’t been ignoring you – you’ve been isolated in solitary confinement in a SHIELD detention center.” Phil scoffs. “It’s actually a wonder you’re here now. Should I be expecting a STRIKE team next?”

 

Clint shoulders are still hunched but he looks up at Phil, assessing for a moment, “I know you signed the papers, that you’re the one who bargained for my release with Fury.”

 

“Something I am regretting now, I assure you.”

 

“Come on, Phil! I’m trying here.”

 

“Trying to what, exactly? Justify going off comms and AWOL in the middle of an op? Cavorting with one of SHIELD’s most wanted? Putting me in a position where I had to hunt you down with a STRIKE team holding orders to fire on sight!?” He’s nearly shouting by the end but doesn’t care – the bottled-up stress and anger and terror of that hunt still clings to him. He doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened if Clint hadn’t turned himself in, new friend in tow.

 

Clint’s shaking his head, tone firm but quiet when he says, “I won’t apologize for bringing her in – it would have been wrong to kill her.”

 

“She nearly killed you!” He sees the other man flinch, and knows he’s right to think that the injuries cataloged by Medical have more to do with the woman Clint brought in than the Russian goons they’d taken down together before turning themselves in.

 

Clint shrugs stiffly, apparently as unconcerned with the possibility of being killed by the Black Widow as he is with medical’s advice to immobilize his right shoulder. It stokes his irritation, and Phil stands to walk away, “Let yourself out.”

 

Clint grabs him by the elbow. His eyes are wide and his breathing fast when Phil turns to stare at him, the hold on his arm nearly bruising in Clint’s desperation. “I trust you with my life, Phil, but I--” his voice cracks and he drops his eyes, grip loosening.

 

Clint has to clear his throat a few times before continuing, and Phil’s hands practically shake in his effort to not comfort him. “I saw her in my sights and I couldn’t let that arrow go, I just couldn’t. All she needed was a way out.” He’s turned away now but gives a half shrug, finally letting his hand fall away completely. “Anyway, I’ll go if you want. Just… I know my word means shit to you right now, but she’s worth it. Give her a chance.”

 

Phil doesn’t understand. He knows Clint’s aware that Phil himself had ignored kill orders when he’d brought in Hawkeye. “Why didn’t you trust me to back your play?”

 

Even as the question hangs between them, Phil realizes this is the real crux of his anger. That despite the years working together, despite the friendship and the possibility of more between them, Clint hadn’t trusted Phil, had gone alone.

 

“There wasn’t time to get approval from HQ, and I didn’t want it to fall on you if it all went to shit,” Clint says, and Phil has to hold back a derisive scoff at that – if this isn’t the definition of ‘went to shit’ he’s sure he doesn’t want to know what that looks like.

 

“You have to know that I care about you, Phil.”

 

The thing is Phil does know, or thought he knew. It’s why this felt so much like betrayal – not just of SHIELD but of what they’d steadily been building, unspoken but growing. His eyes close against the pain as his chest seizes just like it did that day when he’d been left calling the agent’s name into a suddenly silent comm line. He’d been so terrified, thinking something had gone wrong and Clint was dead. It wasn’t much better when he’d realized what had happened, finding Clint’s ear piece and tracking device from his quiver piled neatly in his nest.

 

He feels his eyes pinch together at Clint’s firm but quiet, “I’m sorry, Phil.”

 

Phil’s not sure which of them is more surprised when his arms wrap around Clint, pulling him into a crushingly tight hug. His voice is hoarse and broken when he whispers, “You scared me, Clint. I was so afraid.”

 

Clint collapses forward, leaning heavily against Phil as he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

 

There isn’t much room when Phil shakes his head, feeling Clint’s cheek against his own. Even so he slides a hand up into the short hairs at the back of Clint’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. It’s an intimate gesture but he doesn’t stop himself, trying to fill the hollowness that’s been caving in his chest for the last few weeks.

 

For all that they’ve been working towards this, it’s still a bit of a surprise when he feels Clint’s hands settle on his hips and pull their bodies together. Only the fact that they are so tangled together stops him from pulling away in shock when he feels the tentative press of lips against his neck.

 

He holds still as Clint peppers kisses up his neck and under his ear, gentle feather light touches. When he makes no move beyond the angle of his jaw, Phil manages to find his courage at last and pulls back, looking into the open gaze and trusting eyes. Not breaking eye contact he cradles the back of Clint’s head, thumb rubbing soothing circles against the powerful muscles of his neck.

 

They miss the first time, not entirely but certainly off center as Phil’s lips find the soft corner of Clint’s. He feels the up quirk of the other man’s mouth and answers with a soft chuckle. Without pulling fully away they adjust, and once he gets his mouth on Clint’s he doesn’t want to stop.

 

When they break away for air neither seems willing to go far, just resting their foreheads together and panting into each other’s mouths.

 

Even as the tightness that’s been wound throughout his shoulders the last few weeks continues to ebb away, Phil pulls Clint closer, belying his words, “I’m still mad at you.”

 

Clint’s laughs, and Phil thinks things just might work out ok.

 

***

 

_September 1998_

 

They go over the discharge instructions together with the nurse, pages of medication schedules, dressing and wound care, even a specialized diet to promote Clint gaining back some of the muscle he’s lost after a week in Medical. Clint’s legs are bouncing up and down where they hang over the edge of the bed as he reads down the page. Considering his own stomach’s tied up in nervous knots, Phil can’t fault Clint for the uncharacteristic show of anxiety, but he does lay a subtle hand on Clint’s thigh.

 

Once their questions are answered and Phil has made his own notes in the margins, they get the all clear to head home. He waves Clint off when he tries to take one of the duffle bags by the door – one for their belongings and another stuffed full of dressing supplies. Throwing them both over one shoulder, he follows his partner out the door before drawing even with him to continue their trek down the hall. Clint’s fidgeting with the sling holding his left arm tight against his chest but Phil doesn’t bother stopping him; there’s no one else paying attention. Besides, he’s a bit preoccupied with his own thoughts.

 

Turns out watching his partner/friend/lover be tortured and waiting for the blow that would kill him has helped Phil find the courage that’s eluded him the last nine months. He knows that neither of them needs the rings he has hidden in his desk drawer at home, but he wants it.

 

He saw the uncertainty on Clint’s face every time he woke and thought he was alone. Phil’s convinced that the endless chatter when he’d changed the dressings for the first time - exposed the layered cuts and welts while learning to care for the wounds – was an attempt to distract him from the mess. Clint’s always thought his physical appeal was his strong suit in this relationship, and while Phil never would have planned to propose at a time like this he’s hoping it will reassure Clint that even at his lowest, he’s wanted.

 

But secondary intentions aside, he’s just tired of waiting, of second guessing the rather impulsive purchase. His plan is still hazy and he hasn’t excluded the possibility of just throwing the ring box to Clint and letting him figure it out for himself. Looking at the man beside him, walking carefully without his usual sinewy grace, Phil realizes the how and when has never mattered. There’s no timestamp, no expiration date. It’s not now or never.

 

“I know that look,” Clint’s not looking at him directly, and Phil just returns a noncommittal hum. “Unless it’s dinner you’re plotting over there, give it a rest.”

 

“Pizza?”

 

“See, I knew you loved me.”

 

***

 

_April 15 th, 1999_

 

It’s a small affair, just a handful of their friends from SHIELD and Phil’s aging mother. Nick’s standing behind him, and he would be able to see Natasha over Clint’s shoulder if he could tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. His chest aches in the best way, feeling too small for the swelling of his heart as he takes in the wide grin on Clint’s face and the way his eyes are dancing with happiness. He sets the moment to memory and hopes to always make Clint this happy.

 

***

 

_September 12 th, 1999_

 

Drawn by the sounds of laughter, Phil leans around the doorframe of the kitchen to look in. The room’s a mess of flour, which would make him flinch if he wasn’t so preoccupied by the sight of his mother and husband nearly paralyzed by laughter. They’re both bent in half, flour dusted and red lipped from the strawberries they’ve been eating. Phil grins when he catches Clint’s eyes from across the room.

 

A soft look comes to Clint’s face for a moment before he’s distracted by a hand on his arm, directing his eyes back to the bowl his mother’s holding and they’re both howling in laughter again.

 

There’s a smile on his face and a contentedness in his chest when he pushes away from the door, leaving them to their fun.

 

***

 

_May 3 rd, 2002_

 

Phil drops the last box for his office on top of another before straightening, stretching his sore back. It’s been a long day of moving and his thoughts turn towards dinner as he goes to find Clint. It’s harder in this house than in the apartment, with nearly triple the space and two stories (not including the basement), and it takes him a while to find his wayward husband.

 

It’s a bit of surprise when he finally finds Clint in one of the spare bedrooms. It’s dusk outside and the room’s cast in shadow, empty except for Clint staring out the window into the darkening yard, hands tucked into his pockets and head tilted just slightly. He doesn’t acknowledge Phil when he settles into the space beside him, trying to see if there’s something in particular that’s caught the man’s eye, even though he suspects there’s something only Clint can see.

 

When he finally speaks, Clint’s voice is quiet, as far away as his thoughts.

 

“There was this one foster home, I shared a room with their youngest, and it looked down into the backyard, like this. I would sit up at night and look out the window, planning adventures for the next day.” He shifts, shrugging his shoulders and a small grin settles on his face. “Barney got us kicked out but I still used to daydream about it after we made it to the circus, always imagined growing up and having a house like that, a home.”

 

He shakes his head, allowing the wistful atmosphere to dissipate. With a grin he slides a hand out of his pocket and into Phil’s own, tugging him closer until they’re pressed hip to hip and Phil’s forced to wrap his arm around the archer’s broad shoulders.

 

Clint turns to look out the window again, and when he gets that faraway look again Phil presses a kiss to his temple. “Welcome home, Clint.”

 

***

 

_August 17, 2005_

 

Coming up from sleep is slow, and his mind clings to slumber even as an insistent shaking pulls him up. “Phil? Hey, Phil, you’re going to be late. Time to get up.” Clint’s voice is gentle but firm behind him, accompanied by another shake to his shoulder.

 

His response doesn’t even resemble real words, and he shakes off Clint’s hand before pulling the sheets up under his chin. Clint gives a low laugh and changes tactics, poking a firm finger into the meat of his shoulder blade.

 

The sharp pain wakes him further and he gives a huff. He anticipates the next poke and manages to catch Clint’s hand in his own, pulling against it in order to turn himself towards his husband. He doesn’t open his eyes while he pushes Clint onto his back and half lays on top of him. “Day off, stop shouting.” He thinks this time he may have been somewhat intelligible.

 

Clint shifts, trying to twist enough to see Phil’s face. It’s probably not unfair for Clint to be confused, considering the last time he’d taken an unplanned day off they were newlyweds.

 

“Phil?” Apparently he isn’t going to be able to stay asleep. After a jaw-breaking yawn he presses a kiss to Clint’s well defined pec, the start of a trail he slowly drags up Clint’s chest and neck.

 

“I’m just back, you’re leaving tomorrow. I took a day off.” That’s understating things a bit – Clint’s about to leave for a surveillance op of a suspected AIM facility and Phil’s returned from teaching a three-week course in Germany after spending the month before that overseeing a SHIELD outpost in France. While it’s not the longest stretch they’ve been apart, he found he just didn’t want to let Clint leave again with only a handful of exhausted hours between them.

 

“Yeah?” Clint’s voice is soft, still unbelieving until he feels Phil nod against him. “So, what do you want to do?”

 

Finding Clint’s mouth, he gives him a deep, wet kiss, sliding his hand down the toned body to just above the edge of his boxers and throwing a leg over so he can press his hips against Clint’s own. When he feels an arm slide down his back and Clint pulls him closer he breaks away, pressing another short kiss before whispering against his lips, “Sleep.”

 

Clint barks a laugh which makes him smile, sliding back down Clint’s body to rest his head against the strong chest again. “Sleep, and sex, and maybe lunch at that new place Jasper suggested. Then sex and probably sleep again.”

 

He’s nearly asleep when Clint’s arms tighten around him and a kiss is pressed into his thinning hair. “Sounds good, really good.”

 

***

 

Phil blinks rapidly as his eyes refocus on the present, taking in the sealed envelope on his desk as he lets the past fade back to where it belongs.

 

It’s getting late in the day, almost time for him to go find Clint and head to the safe house for the night. Pulling in a deep breath he uses it to help buffer himself, to prepare for interacting with this version of Clint, so different from the man in the moments he’s just relived. He misses the playful fondness in Clint’s eyes, misses having that someone with whom he didn’t have to hide, could just be himself.

 

Phil wonders if that person even still exists. For just a split second he lets the despair overtake him. Lets the pain and fear and hopelessness in, feels it steal his breath away, feels it cave his chest in and bend his spine forward. He almost surrenders to it completely before he catches himself, claws his way back and shoves the anguish away into the corner he’s kept it locked in since he watched that AIM facility implode.

 

Then he stands, straightens his tie. Hides Phil away and settles Agent Coulson into place as he leaves his office.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Peeks sheepishly around corner*
> 
> Ok so way back when I was going to post this, I had a major crisis of confidence and decided to rewrite the whole chapter. At least three dozen times... And I hated them all and had to walk away for a little while, then life happened, then I managed to get my head back in the game. After so much angst over this chapter I'm not sure I'll ever actually like it, but I hope it's ok. 
> 
> Then I wanted to make sure there would be no further delays, so I went through and made edits to the rest of the story. Which means you get all the remaining chapters today and tomorrow! 
> 
> Again, I apologize for the delay and hope you enjoy!

Chapter 25

 

Clint re-reads the letter twice, disappointment mingling with confusion to create a nauseous roiling in his stomach. He’d hoped for some clearer insight into Phil’s mindset for moving forward, but this feels more like a good bye. It’s true that they aren’t particularly good at discussing feelings, but this is even more sparse than usual. If there’s ever a reason to add an, “I love you,” he’d think it’s in the only form of communication to your husband who was missing and thought dead for over a year.

 

There’s a sharp ache deep in his chest as he sits staring at the pages, and he can’t help but think that Phil has made up his mind for them.

 

He’s so worked up about the body of the letter that he barely notices the post script. It’s not until his third time through that he pauses long enough to decipher the seemingly random numbers as dates. Some he recognizes immediately: 04/15 is easy, and so is 09/1995, but the rest take a bit longer to recall, to understand what Phil’s trying to tell him. To let the memories soothe the ache.

 

It’d taken years the first time for Clint to see himself through Phil’s eyes, to recognize that the respect and love from the other man was much deeper than just appreciation for Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman. In time, Phil had convinced him that he was more than a nice body with good aim. That the admiration had started before they’d even met, when Clint was doing little more than surviving as an assassin for hire and trying not to lose himself completely to the darkness of that life.

 

Trying to be choosey about his marks had nearly cost him his life in the end; he’d pissed off the wrong people too many times and was exhausted from running by the time SHIELD caught up to him. Being arrested had turned out to be a blessing, a second chance, but he hadn’t recognized that initially. He’d been resentful of the ultimatum given to him, jail or work for SHIELD, and it had made him surly, prone to anger and fighting with other agents. He’d been written up by half a dozen handlers when he’d lashed out at them treating him like little more than a mindless weapon.

 

Things changed once he’d been assigned to Agent Coulson. His opinion mattered, and Coulson made sure that the briefs contained ample details about why the target deserved to be in his sights. They’d worked as a team, each with their own strengths, but devoted to the mission and each other. And somewhere along the way, Coulson became Phil.

 

He remembers that night in Medical, when Coulson – Phil – was recovering from emergency surgery to repair a hole in his femoral artery. He remembers, years after the incident, Phil grudgingly admitting his jealousy when Clint had seduced a mark and why he’d never allowed Clint on another honey pot mission. He’d laughed at the embarrassed amusement on Phil’s face, then kissed him and taken the time to show Phil exactly how much he didn’t mind not having to seduce anyone else.

 

Clint swallows hard, over a decade’s worth of memories still swimming in his mind. The page has become crushed in his grip and he sets to straightening it again, smoothing down the paper as he tries to sort the thoughts racing through his head.  He blames the headache for the moisture behind his eyelids as his thumb rubs over the dates, back and forth as if the gesture can calm the tempest inside of him.

 

For all that Phil didn’t say in his letter, hasn’t voiced since Clint returned, it’s here in a series of numbers and lines. The respect, friendship, camaraderie, and love Phil felt for him. He knows these are the turning points Phil chose to represent their life together, but it’s brought forth a hundred more memories and moments that have defined their relationship.

 

Like when he moved into Phil’s apartment – Phil had taken a nasty break to his leg and wrist, and so Clint stayed with him for the first few days to help him get around on the platform walker medical sent home with him. When Clint’s leave was up, Phil had asked him to stay, to come back at the end of the day, every day.

 

There’s his promotion to Level 6 and the celebration that followed, both public and private. The time Phil somehow managed to persuade SHIELD to approve a plan to take four times longer than necessary to travel from Milan to Madrid, saying it fit their covers as tourists better; they’d spent nearly two weeks driving around Europe like they were on honeymoon. Even the unhappy memories, like the week Phil’s mom died and that time in ’98 – the scars on his back give an unhappy twitch as he recalls how he’d earned those marks, kept Phil safe.

 

Putting the letter aside he settles onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

 

He misses that life. It wasn’t easy; the life of a SHIELD agent never is. But they’d made it work, supported each other and were happy together. As much as he wants to ignore everything and just go find Phil, pretend that none of this happened, he knows that’s not possible. That it wouldn’t be fair to anyone if he doesn’t do as Phil asked and weigh all the pieces.

 

For the first time since waking he lets his mind drift to thoughts of Laura without fighting against it, without allowing the guilt to push the memories away. His lips curve upward as he recalls her soft brown eyes, the warmth of her smile, the feel of her arms wrapped around him with a gentleness that belied how inherently strong she really is. Her laugh and the way she could see the best in him, especially when he couldn’t.

 

He thinks about the kids, having them look up to him even when he didn’t feel he deserved it. How proud he was to be trusted with them and by them. The innocent joy they’d brought to life, making every day lively and interesting. He knows now he was never that carefree as a child, never came close except for when he was with Phil.

 

And just like that his thoughts come back to his husband. His badass, competent, handsome, smart, self-sacrificing, fool of a husband. The man who has always put Clint first, from the time he brought Clint into SHIELD to leaving him to the happy, quiet life he’d managed to cultivate even when it must have killed Phil to walk away. Remembering that Phil was much more than just a colleague and friend had thrown him, but now it’s easier to understand why he’d felt so drawn to Phil when he’d seen him in the diner. Why some part of him had recognized the anguish in Phil.

 

For just a moment he tries to imagine walking away now, leaving SHIELD and Phil and Natasha and heading back west. He only lasts that moment before shutting down that train of thought – he’d no sooner be able to walk away than cut off his own hand.

 

He reverses the scenario, imagines never seeing Laura and the kids again, and it sets a deep ache under his sternum. Through the pain he realizes it would be hard but not impossible, made easier by the realization that they’d be safer without him in their lives. He’ll miss being there with them, miss the evenings spent at home together and the weekends at the park and summer cookouts in the backyard. It feels like losing a part of himself, a scar to be carried but not an open wound. He’d go back to being Hawkeye, one of SHIELD’s best covert agents, World’s Greatest Marksman.

 

The thought leaves him feeling hollow, but after everything that’s happened, he can’t imagine he’ll be able to find a better ending. Something will have to give, but he needs for it to not be Phil. He needs to believe they can get back what’s been strained between them, that they can move past this together. That the damages incurred will heal, even if they have to live with the scars.

 

***

 

“Umph!” Clint’s breath leaves him in a rush as he lands on his back. Even with the padded mats it was a vicious takedown, and, if he admitted it, one he deserved given his distraction. Natasha’s barely breathing hard where she’s glaring down at him, arms crossed.

 

“You’re not even trying.” He thinks that’s mildly unfair given the bruises he can feel forming, but she isn’t entirely wrong. He’s nowhere near his prime fighting status and she’s been going easy on him since they started sparring again, but today he can’t seem to keep his thoughts in the gym.

 

 She watches him struggle to catch his breath a moment longer before folding down beside him, arms still crossed but expression a bit softer. “What is it?”

 

He pants a few more breaths to buy some time to consider. She won’t push, but that she’s even offered says a lot, and not just how off he still is. 

 

With one last deep breath he pushes himself into sitting, barely managing to hide the wince when his back complains at the movement. He inspects the blisters on his hands, where he’d once had hardened calluses, and thinks how it’s just another thing that’s different.

 

“I saw Phil.” She makes no outward sign of his statement except to go even more still, hardly breathing. “This morning, after breakfast. I couldn’t…” He pauses, blowing out a breath and shaking his head as if to dispel the memory.  

 

They hadn’t even been that close; Phil had been walking away down the corridor with Hill, bent over a tablet as they hurried along. But Clint had frozen in his steps, shock and longing and heartache so acute it felt like a knife in his chest. His rapid stop had caused a junior agent to run into him from behind, and at the time he’d been grateful for the jarring impact as it broke his line of sight. Clint hadn’t been able to respond to the woman’s nearly frantic apologies around the tightening in his throat, just gave her a jerky nod and fled down a side hallway, away from Phil.

 

“I ran away.” It’s been sitting heavy with him since this morning, cursing himself for not taking the chance and going to Phil. He’ll allow that it maybe wasn’t a good time, and probably not the place, but he’s still embarrassed and doesn’t understand why he reacted the way he did, why he’s afraid when Phil has always meant safety. And he’s ridiculously glad Phil didn’t see him. “I don’t even know why.”

 

Nat is quiet beside him. He’s starting to feel the chill from his drying sweat before she quietly says, “You need to talk to him.”

 

His first thought is to refute it, to ask exactly how he’s supposed to do so when he can’t even be in the same hallway as the man. But he swallows the impulse instead. She’s right, and he knows it, he just doesn’t know what to do about it. Doesn’t know how to bridge the past and the present, doesn’t have the words to make right the hurt and pain and fear and despair.

 

In the end he doesn’t voice any of that. Just whispers, “Yeah” like a promise and a lie and even he isn’t sure which.

 

***

 

Natasha doesn’t knock when she pushes the door open to his office, coming to stand in front of his desk with arms crossed. He takes the time to finish reading the report in front of him and sign his name at the bottom, tuck it away in a file folder, and add it to his done pile before capping his pen and sitting back in his chair.

 

They don’t say anything while taking stock of each other. Phil notices the unimpressed tilt of her lips and raised eyebrow, though the straightness of her spine suggests she’s not as at ease as she’s pretending to be. He doesn’t want to know what she’s getting from him in return, from his carefully immaculate suit to the exhausted circles he can’t hide under dry, red eyes.

 

She’s obviously here to talk about Clint, but just the thought of the man makes his stomach clench. All he can think about is the last time he’d seen Clint, hurrying the other way down a hall so fast he’d left a shell-shocked junior standing in his wake. Phil’d taken half a step forward as if to follow Clint before he could stop himself. Before he recognized that the evidence suggested Clint didn’t want to see him, so much so that he literally fled. Phil hadn’t been able to meet Maria’s confused gaze when he’d turned to continue down the corridor.

 

Phil’s brought back to the present when Natasha shifts minutely, her lips pressing together in a frown and he barely stops himself from sighing. He hates the distance between them. It’s reminiscent of her early days at SHIELD, held together by little more than Clint’s faith in them both until they’d been able to trust each other. Now it seems like Clint’s the only reason they speak to each other, and not with the ease that had been hard won over the years.

 

For a moment he wonders if any of his relationships will survive the last year, but before he can think too much on it, she begins to speak.   

 

“You’ve never let Clint struggle like this before.”

 

“Reports indicate he’s doing fine. Better than expected, in fact.”

 

“Hawkeye’s doing well. Clint is not.”

 

Smoothing a hand down his tie, Phil looks away. Other than his letter, he’s been waiting for Clint to make the first move, to take the initiative, afraid that Clint’s failure to do so is evidence that he doesn’t feel for Phil what he once did. He’s been avoiding Clint so he doesn’t have to ask the questions because he’s afraid of the answers.

 

He straightens in his seat and looks determinately at Natasha. “Tell me.”

 

He doesn’t think he imagines the relief on her face, and through his own pain he reminds himself that this is hard for her as well. For all she understands human behavior to use it as a weapon, and for all she feels deeply about the few people she considers friends, these are hard conversations for her to have.

 

“He thinks you’re avoiding him because you’re mad about what happened while he was gone. He worries you’ll reject him if he reaches out, and he’s convinced himself he deserves the rejection.” 

 

“That’s…” Ridiculous. He wants to say ridiculous, but he thinks about how things may appear from Clint’s point-of-view, and he’s suddenly not sure it actually is.

 

Natasha nods, bringing his attention back to her. There’s a slight tilt of her lips before she turns around, leaving his office and closing the door behind her. Phil stares unseeing after her, trying to decide if protecting himself is still worth the cost.

 

***

 

Phil stares at his computer screen and the email he’s trying to compose. Hundreds of messages a week, some to the very heads of various alphabet agencies in this country and others, and yet this feels like the most important three sentences he’s written in his life.

 

It should be simple, a short message to Clint suggesting a time and place to meet. He’s finding it anything but simple. His first draft felt too much like an order from Agent Coulson, the second too much like a plea. The third and fourth were too delicate, making it seem like he had no personal investment in meeting. A fifth he’d never intended to send was the most accurate but too revealing, a long-winded paragraph which was far too truthful. Reading the stream of consciousness after had been… concerning. He’d erased it immediately, even closing out the window in fear there would be a backup saved somewhere.

 

Sticking with the minimalist approach, he finishes his sixth attempt. Just a day and time that he’ll be home without plans for the night, and an (proverbial) open door. He quickly adds his name to the bottom and hits send before he can over-think it anymore.

 

Panic and doubt take over shortly after. He tries imagining it again, sitting down with Clint in what had once been their home. It’s not like the fantasies from all those months ago during his frantic hunt for information on the missing archer – the passionate embrace and overwhelming sense of relief he’d imagined is now as far-fetched as the dream of Clint walking in the door had been then.

 

It worries him that he can’t find the relief anymore, just bone-deep exhaustion. He tries imagining it again, welcoming Clint into what had once been their home. It’s like imagining a stranger, someone wearing he face of the man he’d loved and lost; he’s not sure if that’s because Clint’s changed, or he has.

 

Blowing out a deep breath he forces himself to focus on the reports stacked on his desk; he may not be sure he’s ready to face Clint and everything between them, but he’s certain this limbo isn’t helping either of them.

 

***

 

Phil’s nervous, and it had taken Natasha pointing it out for him to acknowledge that he’s also scared. He misses the emotionless indifference he’d been wearing like a mask, hiding the darker emotions underneath: anger and grief.

 

And happiness, but that’s somehow more terrifying to acknowledge.

 

Taking a deep breath, he tries to find balance, a sense of calm amidst the roiling emotions. He needs to find some sense of control, even if it’s just of himself.

 

And he most certainly does not need to fluff the couch pillows a third time.

 

Looking around he wonders, not for the first time, if perhaps offering to meet here was a bad idea, too personal. But this had seemed the safest – even if the house hasn’t felt like the safe-haven it used to.

 

There’s still half an hour before Clint’s due to arrive when he finally forces himself to sit down in the armchair and turn on the TV, flipping through channels in an attempt at distracting himself.

 

***

 

Clint curses as he watches cars rush by, trying to find an opening to cross.

 

He was in medical since early afternoon to get another round of tests and scans completed, but a malfunction with the machine meant hours of delay. Stuck in the plastic tube, he hadn’t realized how late it was getting, but he’d been rather desperate to get it over with – he’s been assured this will be the last scan needed until his six month follow up.

 

And now he’s late, really late.

 

He’d been surprised but relieved when Phil emailed him two days ago, saying he was planning to leave work early on Friday and head home, and that he had no other plans. There was no pressure, nothing beyond the information and gentle invitation.

 

Clint may have panicked slightly, bouncing off the too close walls of his quarters until Natasha found him. She’d taken a long look at him and the laptop still sitting open on the floor where he’d dropped it, cursed, and pushed him into a chair before dropping his computer onto his lap. She’d run a soothing hand through his hair then helped him word a reply.

 

Eventually, traffic clears enough for him to dart across the road, and he breaks into a mix of speed walking and jogging. It’s nearly an hour past their agreed meeting time when he finally turns onto their block. Slowing to a walk, he tries to catch his breath but figures there isn’t much to be done for the way his heart’s racing – it’s been jack-hammering against his ribs anytime he’s thought about this meeting all week, and now Phil’s just a few doors away.

 

Stopping below the steps leading to the front door, he tries to shake off some of the nerves by jumping up and down a couple times. But at the door he has his next loss of confidence when he can’t decide whether to knock or let himself in. He hangs his head, wonders briefly how he’s supposed to get through this evening if he can’t even open the door, and then reaches for his keys.

 

The hall’s dark, but he can see light from the living room and it’s there that he finds Phil. The older man is sitting on the couch, leaning back in a facsimile of comfort that’s belied by how rigidly he’s holding himself, arms wrapped tight across his chest and he barely glances at Clint when he steps into the room.

 

Phil’s still dressed in his work shirt and tie, though it’s loose around his neck and the sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms. It’s far from the warm welcome he’d hoped for, but he supposes it’s no less than he deserves under the circumstances.

 

Clint spends a moment not sure what to do with himself, putting his hands in his pockets then pulling them out to rest behind his back before he realizes it’s too much like parade rest and too much like reporting in to his handler rather than coming home to his husband. He contemplates crossing to take a seat in the armchair but then he won’t be looking at Phil, and he’s not ready to stop looking. Finally settling on leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms in front of himself, he lets his gaze wander over the other man.

 

Phil looks good, a sight for eyes he hadn’t even realized were sore until standing in front of him now. His hair is a bit thinner on top, and the lines around his eyes are a bit deeper. He looks tired but healthy. Clint swallows hard; even rigid and closed off, Phil looks very good.

 

The silence has grown during his perusal and he clears his throat, trying to think of what to say but it’s all tangled up in his head. In the end, what comes out is a quiet but heartfelt apology.   

 

“I’m sorry, Phil.” He’s not even sure what he’s trying to apologize for – for being late, for not coming sooner, for hurting Phil, for his infidelity, for not knowing what to do next.

 

He’s watching closely enough that he can’t miss the way Phil’s face seems to fall and his arms tighten further. Worry settles like a stone in Clint’s gut as he sees Phil pulling away, shutting down, and then Phil gives a sharp nod. It’s a quick and decisive movement, like he’s confirming something expected but steeling himself to accept it none the less.

 

“I meant what I said, you have nothing to apologize for.” He shifts uncomfortably and can’t meet Clint’s eyes; an unusual tell that has Clint’s breath catching in his chest. “You didn’t need to come here to do this, you know. I would have sent your things on regardless.”

“What?” Clint startles, the question coming out sharper than he’d intended, but he’s unable to regret it when Phil finally looks at him. He wonders if the other man can see the devastation eating through him, hollowing him out.

 

And as much as he’s been unsure of his welcome it appears Phil must have been worried that Clint was planning to move on, that he’d come to say goodbye, to get his things to leave.

 

It hits him like a truck, what must have been going through Phil’s mind while he sat here in the dark, waiting for over an hour. If Clint was worried about Phil being indifferent, Phil must have been convinced of the same from Clint when he didn’t even send a message until far later than they had arranged to meet.

 

He’s started across the room with a hand outstretched towards Phil before he’s consciously aware of moving, “No, Phil, no. That’s not…”

 

Taking a deep breath, he tries to still the panic and manages to stop himself a few feet of Phil, who’s body language is screaming to not be touched. It feels like they stand on a precipice, and he’ll go tumbling off with any misstep.

 

“I’m not here to leave, Phil, I’m here to stay. I don’t know how to make this all work out, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.” He lets a small self-conscious smile spread across his lips, “I know it may not seem like it right now, but you’ll always be endgame for me.”

 

It’s a tense moment before Phil nods slowly, less certain than before. Meeting Clint’s eyes he frowns, “It’s a bit of a mess, I think.”

 

Clint barks out a short laugh, louder than necessary but it’s a relief to hear the slightly teasing tone in the words Clint himself has said on many a mission. “You say that like it’s something new.” Finally coming closer he sits on the couch, knocking his shoulder gently against Phil’s. “I have it on good authority I’ve been a solid mess since well before you married me.”

 

Emotion chokes him when he hears Phil chuckle softly beside him, the sound foreign yet familiar. “I’m not sure I’d count Fury as ‘good authority.’”

 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Clint forces the joke out with a brittle laugh, but it ends with a choked off sob. “Fuck, Phil, I don’t know if ‘mess’ even covers it at this point.”

 

Phil sighs and looks down, “Believe it or not, it’s been worse.”

 

Clint catches the echo of heartbreak on Phil’s face, and the weight of it crushes him. “Phil…”

 

“I could hardly speak your name for months. I kept forgetting you weren’t here, and then everything reminded me of you.” Phil’s still looking at the coffee table but shakes his head. “Eventually it got… I was surviving.”

 

Clint loses the battle to hold back tears, and when he opens his mouth no words come.

 

“Then I found you, but you didn’t know me, didn’t remember anything. That was…” He gives a humorless huff. “But I was glad for you, and in some way, it was better, knowing you were alive; I didn’t have to wonder anymore. Decided I could be… content, knowing you stayed that way, and I’d just go on…

 

“And now, you’re here. We’re here. But…”

 

“But it’s a mess.” 

 

Phil nods. “Neither of us are the same people. And a lot has changed for you this year.”

 

“Not this, Phil. Not what you mean to me.”

 

“Is it… How can you be sure?”

 

Clint’s never heard Phil so uncertain before, so lost. Broken. For a second, he wonders if anything can ever be enough to overcome the pain of the last year, to erase the fear in Phil’s voice. Then he dismisses the thought; not an option.

 

“We make it be enough. Together. Just like always.”

 

Phil studies his face for a long moment, searching. Then he gives a nod and leans to let his shoulder rest against Clint’s. He wonders if Phil’s as desperate for comfort as he is.

 

 “Not sure that constitutes as a game plan.”

 

“Come on, boss man, you’re the one with the plans.” He nudges Phil’s shoulder next to his own, trying to break the tension out of the man’s back but instead he stiffens further.

 

“Not this time, Clint. This isn’t something I can do on my own.”

 

“Not expecting you to.” Pushing back into the cushions Clint lifts his feet to rest on top of the coffee table, ignoring Phil’s pointed glare beside him like he’s done for years. He groans theatrically, “This means we’re going to have to talk, doesn’t it?”

 

The carefully bland tone can’t mask the nerves or gravity behind the question, “Think you’re up for it?”

 

Clint takes a few moments to really contemplate the challenge before them. They never were great at using their words, particularly Clint, who never did seem to know what to say, and his stubbornly thick skull that resisted hearing what Phil tried to tell him. Even though he’s made progress with psych, the past week of having no idea how to approach Phil is an unwelcome reminder of how far he still has to go. But there’s no alternative.

 

“I’ll manage,” he says and reaches for Phil’s hand, not breaking eye contact as he promises, “Whatever it takes.”

 

There’s a shadow in the back of Phil’s gaze, and it makes Clint frown. “What’s going on in there?” He emphasizes his words with a gentle knuckle against Phil’s temple.

 

Phil opens his mouth, but nothing comes, and he closes it again with a shake of his head. Clint’s struck with the realization that Phil’s concerns about communication weren’t solely about him. After a heavy sigh, Phil starts again, but his words make Clint’s blood run cold.

 

“Having you here now – I always figured that if I could find you, could bring you home, that everything would work out, and it’s… nothing feels right.”

 

No. Clint refuses to acknowledge that’s defeat he’s hearing in Phil’s voice. Not now, not ever. They’ve had worse situations, difficult choices and close calls, and never had he heard that level of exhaustion, of loss, in his partner’s voice.

 

_It’s been worse._ That’s what Phil had said, just minutes ago, and Clint can’t fathom it, can’t comprehend that much _hurt_.

 

He wants to go back in time before the mission that ripped them apart. Wants to hunt down the assholes who did this to them. Wants to find the words and actions to make this be ok for Phil. Wants to wrap Phil in his arms, to make him see how wrong he is, but the fact that Clint hesitates to even touch him is further evidence of just how correct Phil is.

 

Everything feels off, and it’s not just him that’s changed. From the time they met, Phil’s been a constant, steady presence. After the chaos of his years as an assassin for hire, that stable, cool competence almost immediately drew Clint in, though he’d resisted at first. It’d taken months for Clint to trust him enough to lean on that strength, and he’s never realized how much he’d come to rely on that unshakeable foundation. Now it feels like a rug being yanked out from under his already precarious footing.

 

He waits for panic to set in, but it’s absent. Maybe it’s because he’s finally home with Phil beside him, or maybe it’s knowing Phil feels as insecure as he does, or maybe he really has grown in the last year. Whatever the reason, the idea of hard conversation and navigating the emotional landmines set by the last year is less daunting. Not without its worries, but he doesn’t feel the need to run. It’s oddly liberating.

 

He takes a deep breath, holds it, then blows it away. It’s his turn to be strong for them both. It still takes a couple attempts to push words through the gravel in his throat, “Yeah, well, maybe we’re just out of practice.”

 

The effort at levity is lost completely, but he forces a weak smile onto his face anyway. Phil doesn’t say anything, and Clint looks around for some way to break the tension, his eye catching on the remote next to his foot. “Besides, the cable package on base is terrible, and I’m way behind on Dog Cops.”

 

Phil fails to stifle a pained sound, and Clint pauses in his reach for the remote.

 

“Or I can go? Give you some space?”

 

“Stay. Just, I…” Phil trails off and gives a short wave towards the TV.

 

Clint, afraid Phil will change his mind, doesn’t ask again. Habit has him pulling up the DVR, scrolling back through the last year and more of stored but unwatched episodes. He also doesn’t mention the lack of Phil’s usual shows, or the thought of Phil erasing them to make room for Clint’s show.  Forcing his muscles to loosen, he relaxes back against the couch, letting the series intro play through.

 

Phil takes longer, but by the time Sgt Pepper has the bad guy trapped he’s smiling while Clint laughs.

 

***

 

Three hours later, Phil stifles his third yawn in as many minutes behind a closed fist. He doesn’t say anything though, and Clint gets the feeling he’s not the only one enjoying the distraction from all the uncertainty.

 

After the first episode, they’d settled into a peaceful sort of existence. They’d managed to laugh, and though their conversation was limited to “remember that time in season 1…” type remarks, but it had been comfortable. They aren’t touching, but Clint can feel the heat from Phil’s arm next to his, and it’s the best damn thing. He doesn’t want it to end.

 

A fourth yawn has Phil shaking his head as if to clear it, and Clint figures it’s past time to bow out graciously. He concentrates on the feel of Phil next to him for the last couple of minutes before the credits start to roll, then he turns off the auto play and sits up with a groan when his stiff muscles protest the movement.

 

“I’m pretty sure,” he starts and stops, the words thinning into nothing as he stretches. He waits until he’s stretched out his spine, with a few more creaks and cracks than he’d like, then tries again. “I’m pretty sure Fury still has me on a curfew, so I better get back.”

 

Phil gives a hum of agreement as he stands, but his bad knee protests with a series of pops, causing him to stumble half a step towards Clint. Clint laughs and Phil straightens with a rueful grin, carefully pulling away from where Clint’s reaching out to brace him.

 

The withdrawal is meant to be subtle, but it leaves a hollow achiness in Clint’s chest. He doesn’t say anything, just gathers the plates from the coffee table and heads to the kitchen, leaving the empty beer bottles for Phil; the remnants of the dinner they’d had between episodes, when Clint’s empty stomach had protested loudly enough to drive Phil to the kitchen to make sandwiches.

 

He rinses the plates and hands them to Phil, who adds them to the dishwasher. They work in silence, not uncomfortable, but heavy in a way that makes Clint loath to break it. The walk to the front door is slow, each of them struggling to find something to say as Clint laces up his boots and shrugs into his jacket.

 

“I, uh. Thanks-” Phil starts and stops, trying to hide his wince by ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. “For coming. I, uh, it was… good?”

 

Clint manages to smile past the feeling of wrongness from seeing Phil so hesitant, uncertain, and uses it to strengthen his resolve.

 

“I know I don’t really have any standing to be asking for things right now, but I was wondering if maybe you could do something for me?”

 

There’s a guarded look on Phil’s face that he hates, but he gets a cautious nod.

 

“I could really use a hug.” He lets a wide but soft smile curl his lips, inviting but not coercive.

 

Phil huffs a short laugh, and after only a pause that feels endless to Clint, he opens his arms. It’s weird at first as they try to keep their distance, shuffling like it’s their first hug rather than one of thousands.

 

He’s just about decided to pull away, apologize to Phil for making this even more awkward when something clicks, and he’s able to pull Phil close, pressed against him fully and arms wrapped solidly around each other. Phil gasps into his ear, body tense for a moment more before he relaxes into the hug, sliding one hand into the short hairs at the back of Clint’s head to hold him even closer.

 

His voice is just this side of wrecked when he whispers into Clint’s ear, “I forgot how good it felt to be held by you,” punctuating his words with a tightening of his arms.

 

“Sap,” Clint teases gently, though his voice is no less broken than Phil’s.

 

“Clint…” There’s an edge of warning this time, Phil making it clear he’s not ready to be teased.

 

With his head held in Phil’s hand Clint nods as much as he’s able, shifting minutely closer. “Yeah, too soon for me too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Of note, I had the bit about 'endgame' and 'whatever it takes' long before the Avengers 4 title/trailer were released...


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

 

Phil would think the embrace had gone on for an embarrassingly long time if Clint wasn’t still clutching at him as well. It’s been minutes when Clint starts to pull away, and he fights the urge to tighten his arms. Clint hides his face when he turns to leave, and Phil’s careful not to draw attention to the man’s sniffle or his shiny eyes.

 

Clint’s kind enough to return the favor.

 

They whisper quiet ‘goodbyes’ as Clint slips around the heavy oak, open just wide enough for him to pass. Moving to reset the locks Phil rests his head against the wood and sighs, the weight of everything resting heavily on him. It’s an enormous undertaking they are proposing. In some respects, saying goodbye would have been easier – a cleaner ending than if this goes wrong.

 

But it’s hard to see how it can go right. Despite Clint’s reassurance, it’s difficult to imagine he could be happy returning to this life when he could have… more. Even if Clint wants to return to SHIELD and his role as Hawkeye, that doesn’t mean he has to settle for a balding, middle-aged man with a propensity to put the job first. Why should Clint work so hard when the family he always wanted, always deserved, is waiting for him? The memory of Clint greeting Laura with a kiss and lifting Lila into his arms appears unbidden, and his heart gives a painful thump.

 

“Stop it!” He reinforces the command by thumping his head against the door, does it again to chase the image from his mind, then once more for good measure. There may be another family who cares about Clint, but Clint was here, spent the last few hours with him, assured him that he wants to make the effort to reconnect. Even if he doesn’t trust himself right now, he’s always been able to trust Clint.

 

It’s a good thing Clint seems enthusiastic about the hard work to come because, right now, he’s just tired.

 

It’s tempting to let heartache and exhaustion - physical, mental, and emotional - take him off to sleep where he stands, but with a herculean effort he manages to push away and head upstairs towards bed. He’s changed and just about to slide under the covers when he hears a tentative knocking. He’d think he’s imagined it, but there’s something about the rhythm that catches his attention.

 

Sidearm in hand he returns to the front door, not entirely surprised to see Clint fidgeting on the step when he peers through the peephole. Taking a deep breath, he pulls open the door.

 

Clint looks up, and Phil gives him a blank look except for an eyebrow raised in question. Clint seems to be second guessing himself, opening and closing his mouth without saying anything a few times before he visibly steels himself.

 

“In the spirit of practice, I thought I’d let you know – I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back to SHIELD. I want to be home.” That seems to be the end of his bravado, and he trails off with a shrug as if he hadn’t just put himself out to be rejected.

 

Phil’s recent doubts try to reassert themselves, and he pushes them away. But the silence grows while he’s fighting with himself, and when he focuses again it’s to find Clint hanging his head while his shoulders collapse in on themselves. “Anyway,” he shrugs, and Phil nearly winces at the disappointment in his voice when he turns to go.

 

On an impulse he reaches out, grabbing Clint’s arm before he can walk away. He swallows at the bright-eyed anticipation on Clint’s face, and while part of him wants to agree whole-heartedly he’s trying to temper that with the part trying to protect the still fragile pieces of his heart. 

 

“This is your home too, and you’re welcome to stay.” He holds up a hand to prevent Clint’s reply, needing to add some protections for himself. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

 

Clint’s face goes rigidly blank for a moment as he takes in Phil’s counter proposal, then he gives a small grin. “I’m not going to run you out of bed, Phil. It would just be nice to not wake up in a shoebox.”

 

“I’m not sure the guest bedroom is much better.” Phil huffs as he opens the door wider.

 

They split when they make it upstairs; Clint going to the hall closet to retrieve fresh sheets while Phil excuses himself to the bedroom. He tries to ignore the rapid beating of his terrified, optimistic heart as he crosses to the dresser to grab sleeping clothes for Clint.

 

Because Clint’s here. Clint’s staying, Clint’s managed to express what he needs and wants twice tonight when it had taken years to get him to do the same before.

 

Bracing his hands against the top of the dresser Phil takes a few steadying breaths. He gives himself to the count of ten before making himself move on, tucking the clothes under his arm and crossing to the en suite bathroom. They always have spare toothbrushes and travel size toothpaste under the sink to pack in their go bags, so he adds one of each to the bundle.

 

Returning to the guest room he finds Clint just shaking out a deep purple fitted sheet, and he sets down the items in his hands to take up the side opposite. Long years of working together come to the fore as they make the bed in silence. They’re each stuffing a pillow into a case when Clint asks, “What time are you heading into work in the morning?” It’s said innocently enough, but Phil catches the edge of uncertainty.

 

“Thought I’d catch up from home.” He tries to smile but can’t meet Clint’s eyes, knowing the other man’s likely to hear what he didn’t say - that he’d decided to stay home this weekend anticipating a much different outcome from their meeting. The way Clint nods and doesn’t look up makes Phil think he understands just fine. And being Clint, he uses humor to cover his discomfort.

 

With a leap that would do a high jumper proud, he lands on the freshly made bed, tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his feet at the ankles before he’s even stopped bouncing. “Great! So, do I order breakfast now or is it more like a continental?”

 

Phil gives him the best longsuffering look he can muster, depositing the bundle of clothes and toiletries on the bed. “Whatever you decide to make, of course.”

 

“What kind of hotel is this, anyway? This will be reflected in my review, you know.” The wink makes Phil nearly swallow his tongue; the action’s so reminiscent of times before Clint’s long absence that it seems like the year never happened. It’s tempting to forget about the new damages they hold between them and just exist, but that’s a pipedream and he knows it.

 

With a wry, “Good night, Clint,” he walks out the door, shutting it behind him more to give himself distance than to provide privacy. He doesn’t pause outside the door, instead retreating down the hall to his room and shutting himself in.

 

Reflecting on the unexpected turn to the night, he turns off the light and crawls under the covers, shaking his head at Clint’s antics in fond exasperation and using it to cover up the ache behind his breast bone. He lays in the dark and contemplates the task before them, remembers when that ache had once been sharp enough to stop his breath, considers how he may be setting himself up for that same pain again. It’s hard to find optimism here, alone and afraid.

 

***

 

The first few moments after waking are disorienting, and he lays still under the warm blankets to watch sunlight slowly fill the room. It doesn’t take long for his thoughts to turn to the current predicament and the uncertainty floods back. It’s uncommon for him to lay in bed and brood like this, but the thought of leaving the safety of these rooms is a bit overwhelming. He’s both afraid to find it’s all a dream and afraid to find Clint’s still here, and all the heartache associated with trying to close the distance between them. 

 

There’s a sudden banging sound, muted as it travels through the house and door of his room. Well, at least he won’t have to go searching for Clint if he’s already in the kitchen. It’s a bit of a surprise as Clint’s usually one for sleeping in, and it’s just another reminder that a lot has changed.

 

With a sigh he forces those thoughts away and kicks the sheets off. It would be silly to go to breakfast in a suit and tie, but it is tempting; his daily uniform has become a safety blanket that’s come to feel like armor. Instead he slides his feet into slippers before shuffling to the bathroom.

 

Glancing at himself in the mirror, he blows out a breath. What’s left of his hair is stuck up in a fluffy halo, catching the light. Despite the relatively late hour he’s managed to sleep in, there are dark smudges under his eyes, matching the shadows gathering in the deep chasms lining his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. His nose is crooked from more than one break healing unset and the stubble along his jaw is more gray than dark. He sighs again.

 

He’s usually not one to worry about his physical appearance – he knows he’s in good shape… for his age. But his traitorous mind can’t help but draw a comparison between himself and a vibrant brunette with kind eyes and a face unmarred by the violence in the world.

 

Frustrated, he turns away from the mirror with a growl. There’s enough to worry about without adding middle-life crisis on top. Like how he’s going to have to go downstairs and share breakfast with a man who looks like Clint, reminds him of Clint, but isn’t the man he remembers.

 

None of this feels reals, and Phil’s heart and head are both having a hard time catching up. There should be joy and enthusiasm and relief to have Clint back, but instead there’s just the same dull ache and sense of detachment he’s learned to live with.  Everything feels tenuous, like Clint’s a visitor here or going to disappear any minute.

 

“Give it up, Phil.” He cuts off the downward spiral of his thoughts with the words. Pushing away from the sink he returns to the bedroom for a sweatshirt, then forces himself to open the door and leave before he can second guess anymore.

 

***

 

Clint’s sitting at the breakfast bar when Phil comes in with a determined set to his posture. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than the lost look from last night but figures it’s a starting point.

 

“Coffee’s made, and I’ve got everything ready for omelets, if you’re hungry?”

 

“That sounds perfect,” Phil says on his way to get a mug down. “I, uh, meant to say thanks when… for the food you brought over. I’ve… it’s been busy.”

 

“No problem.” Clint stands and starts uncovering the bowls of chopped veggies and beaten eggs. “I can’t imagine why you might have been pre-occupied the last few weeks.”

 

Phil just gives a hum of agreement while adding a measure of sugar and milk to his coffee.

 

“Oh,” Clint says softly, then lets out a huff of laughter while shaking his head. “Of course.”

 

That gets him an eyebrow raised in question, and he turns back to his task while explaining, “I kept asking for coffee with one cream and one sugar, and I couldn’t figure out why because it tasted terrible. Now I remember.”

 

“Oh.” The tone makes Clint look at Phil, finding a complex expression on the man’s face. Before he can comment on it, Phil gives another of his hums and covers by taking a sip from his mug. When he lowers the drink, he says in a carefully controlled voice, “You… remembered, that?”

 

_Ah_. “No. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t like that. I didn’t so much remember as it felt… right, maybe? Like, it came naturally to ask for it that way, but kind of on a subconscious level.”

 

“Is that… did you… when I was…”

 

Clint grimaces as he understands what Phil’s trying to ask. “I don’t know, Phil. Something about you drew me in. But it’s not like I _recognized_ you, I just knew… you.” He trails off with a shrug, not sure how to explain further.

 

Phil studies the ripples in the surface of his coffee far too intently.

 

“You know, now that I think about it, I didn’t even have that when Nat showed up. Nothing.” He grins but Phil doesn’t look up to see it, still staring at his coffee.

 

“That’s… I don’t know what to make of that.”

 

Clint can’t help it; he barks out a laugh. “Yeah, me neither. Look, I wish I could say there were clues, bits and pieces, flashes poking through. But it wasn’t. Hell, not even my usual nightmares made it through the block – just fragments from my time as a guest of AIM.”

 

“The cougar?”

 

“Instinct. Muscle memory. I couldn’t say why I knew I could make that shot, just that I knew I had to try. My body took over from there, and I let it.” He pauses, rolling a piece of pepper between his finger and thumb as he adds quietly. “Scared the hell out of me.”

 

Whether it’s the words or the vulnerability he couldn’t keep out of his voice, Phil finally looks up. Their eyes meet long enough to see the misery reflected in each other before Clint can’t stand it anymore and turns away, blinking rapidly.

 

“Anyway, I pretty much emptied out the fridge,” Clint says as he puts butter in the pan and watches it melt. “I think it’s about time for another grocery run. Maybe we could go after breakfast?”

 

Clint avoids looking at Phil by adding the veggies to the pan to soften, but he notices when Phil sets down his mug and crosses the kitchen. He’s transferred the vegetables back to their bowl and started cooking the eggs by the time Phil returns.

 

“I’ve put the usual on the list, but you should probably take a look.”

 

He slides a piece of paper and pen onto the counter just outside splatter range for the hot pan, and Clint spares a moment to glance over at the long column of Phil’s neat writing. When his eye catches on protein bars/powder and orange juice, he pauses– Phil hates orange juice and doesn’t use supplemental protein. Which means Phil added them to the list with Clint in mind, thinking Clint would be staying.

 

Hiding his smile, he forces himself to concentrate on not burning breakfast.

 

***

 

“Think I may go for a run once we unpack.” Clint says as he lifts the bags in his hands onto the kitchen counter. “Get out of your hair, give you a chance to get some work done?”

 

Phil deposits his own bags. “Well, I don’t have a whole lot to catch up with, and it’s a beautiful day out. Maybe I’ll join you?”

 

Phil doesn’t look up, carefully avoiding eye contact under the guise of stocking the fridge, like he’s afraid Clint will say no or refuse his company.

 

“Sure, we could go through the park, down to the pond?” It used to be one of their favorite routes, and this time of year it’s particularly beautiful. He sees Phil nod, and they work in companionable silence to finish putting away the groceries. When that’s done, Clint picks up the duffel bag of things they’d picked up from SHIELD. Phil moves to follow him upstairs to change but gets sidetracked by the ringing of his phone, still in the kitchen, and Clint laughs when he mutters something about Fury as he turns back to get it.

 

Clint’s still smiling as he climbs the stairs; his heart is light and his steps swift. The morning wasn’t perfect, but it was good none the less. They’d eaten breakfast and gone about their errands, and Phil came out from his shell bit by bit. It wasn’t easy or smooth, with more than one heavy silence spreading between them, and there were times he could feel Phil holding himself apart. Yet, by the time they’d walked in the door, Phil was a little less tense, his gaze unguarded, and his smiles small but sincere.

 

Switching out for shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, he grabs his sneakers and heads back downstairs, heading towards the kitchen when he hears Phil speaking.

 

“-sure to tell him, and I’m sure he’ll call you soon.” Clint slows before he rounds the corner – Phil’s voice is tight, controlled, defensive. It’s unlikely to be noticeable to the person on the other end of the phone, but to Clint it’s like a warning shot.

 

“Nice to hear from you, too.”  There’s a gentle thud that Clint takes for Phil tossing the phone to the counter, and he edges around the doorframe slowly, the joviality of moments ago turned to lead in his stomach.

 

Phil’s turned away from him, facing the counter with his arms crossed and one hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. Clint swallows thickly to see the defeated sag in his spine, before calling softly, “Phil?”

 

“Laura called. She was worried, said she hasn’t heard from you in over a week. I told her you’d call.”

 

“Oh, thanks. I’ll call her later, after our run.”

 

Phil takes a deep breath and blows it away, then picks up his phone and slides it and his hands into his pockets as he turns around. His face is blank, and his gaze is directed just over Clint’s shoulder. “You go ahead, I’ve got some work to catch up on.”

 

Then he’s gone, squeezing past and disappearing up the stairs.

 

Clint leans into the doorframe with a groan, “Dammit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
> \- Short comments  
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> \- Questions  
> \- “<3” as extra kudos  
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	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

 

By the time Monday rolls around, Clint’s almost glad to go to his medical appointment. What started as a promising weekend had ended with Phil staying closed in his room for the rest of Saturday, and on Sunday he was gone by the time Clint woke up. The disappointment had been bitter.

 

He’d spent the better part of Sunday morning moping and texting with Natasha (after reminding him of the time difference between NY and her undisclosed location, she’d called him a child and other less kind names before going radio silent), then he’d taken himself for a run. The fresh air and familiar neighborhood sights had helped him center himself and, after a quick shower and shave, he’d set about making lunch to take to Phil in hopes of catching a few minutes of the man’s time to talk.

 

Phil had been in the middle of a conference call and barely glanced at Clint when he took the seat across from him. After waiting half an hour Clint had left the sandwiches and waved a good-bye, carefully hiding his frustration.

 

He’d spent a few hours at the range before heading to the gym, and he found himself wishing for Nat. Letting her throw his bruised body around the mats would have been a welcome distraction. Instead he focused on weight lifting, and when the ache in his body had matched the one in his heart, he’d decided to take himself home.

 

By the time he made it home, he’d managed to excuse Phil’s absence, and figured being mad about it wasn’t going to make things better. It got harder to keep his peace as the hours passed, and by the time Phil crossed the threshold just after 2100 the lasagna had been keeping warm for a couple hours.

 

Apparently, Sunday dinner was another thing Phil’d managed to forget, having taken his plate to sit in front of the TV. Clint almost made a snarky comment until he’d realized how tired the man looked – dark circles under eyes that were red and dry, staring unseeing at the comedy playing out on the screen in front of them.

 

So, Clint had bitten his tongue and managed to hold his side of the conversation compared to Phil’s ‘hmms’ and monosyllable replies.  He’d even offered to get seconds, but Phil waved him off, taking his plate to the kitchen before heading upstairs with his tablet and a muttered, “thanks for dinner.”

 

And now he’s sitting in medical glad for the distraction of filling out various forms about his symptoms – mild headaches worse at night but no dizziness, appetite still diminished but he’s not sure if that’s the surgery or that he still isn’t up to his previous standard work outs. Overall, he feels well, and looking through the sheets of possible complications he’s thankful that he’s made it through relatively unscathed.

 

There’s a knock on the door when he’s bent over the last form - some kind of mini IQ test - and he doesn’t look up as he calls out for the doctor to enter.

 

“Has she been in yet?” The voice takes him by surprise, and his head snaps up to find Phil closing the door behind him. The man’s dressed in another of his impeccable suits, not a hair out of place but he looks just as exhausted as he had the night before when he’d gone off to bed. And it’s the most Phil’s said to him in nearly 48 hours.

 

Now he’s frowning, keeping his distance near the door. “Clint?”

 

“Oh, no, not yet.” He shakes his head, trying to hide his surprise. He knows Phil’s copied on his schedule and so was aware of this appointment. It’s his first formal follow up with the neurosurgeon, but after the weekend he hadn’t expected Phil to show.

 

Phil gives a short nod and moves to sit in the chair in the corner, setting his tablet on his lap and starting to tap away. Clint frowns at the thinning hair on top of Phil’s ducked head, but before he can call the other man out on his avoidance there’s another knock on the door, and he clears the annoyance from his face to greet the doctor.

 

“Agent Barton, how are you?” She shakes both their hands before taking a seat on the rolling stool in the corner.

 

“Good! Brain’s good, no frying since that first day.” She smiles indulgently at him, but he can feel Phil’s sharp gaze. He still feels raw from being ignored for the past weekend, and with the reminder that Phil wasn’t there for the rough start after surgery it takes some will power to not flip the man off. Only the fact that such a move would reveal more of their troubles than he’s willing to stops him.

 

The doctor spends a few moments reviewing the sheet he’d just filled in. She asks him to elaborate on the headaches, happy to find that he no longer has pain or panic when new memories surface. She scolds him for returning too quickly to aggressive work outs, but after a quick exam clears him for all activity anyway.

 

“Anything, anything?” He asks with a cheeky grin and a wink, which makes her laugh and roll her eyes. Glancing at Phil he finds the man has his arms crossed tightly over his chest and is turned away, face stony. It almost makes him regret his flippant remark. Almost.

 

“Your images from Friday look fantastic. We’ll see you again in a few weeks, and if everything continues to look good we’ll be giving you the go ahead to start the recertification process.” Clint turns back to the doctor, listening as she lists out the steps he’ll have to complete to be recertified for missions. It sounds straight forward but he knows it will take weeks yet, possibly even months, and that’s not even considering that psych will need to clear him.

 

 It’s sobering to realize how far he has to go before he can truly be Hawkeye again.

 

“Any questions?” She closes the chart and stands, looking between him and Phil who’s also standing.

 

“Think I’m good, doc. Thank you, for everything.” She smiles and shakes his hand, gripping it in both of hers as she bids him take care of himself.

 

“If you could have your notes and recommendations from today’s visit forwarded to me, I’ll be sure to update Agent Barton’s activity status. We’ll also need him to renew his vision acuity test during his next visit and prior to recertification.” Phil’s strictly professional voice interrupts them, but he’s already crossing to the door while the surgeon assures him the study will be ordered.

 

Then he’s gone. Clint refuses to meet the doctor’s eyes, giving a shrug of the shoulders.

 

He’s thankful when she seems to take the hint and drops the subject, wishing him the best and sending him on his way.

 

***

 

The rest of the week passes in a flurry of paperwork and evaluation. For all that Phil has barely acknowledged Clint’s presence since Saturday, Agent Coulson has been outdoing himself with making sure Hawkeye is appropriately resurrected from the dead.

 

First there’s a massive amount of paperwork to be completed and forms to sign. He gets a new ID for Level 2, well below his usual which will be reinstated if he passes his recertification. At least security will stop glaring at him when he comes back every morning after sneaking out each night.

 

With medical clearance, Phil contacted physical therapy and Clint now has scheduled sessions three times a week, focusing on regaining his strength and agility. There’s even a series of emails from the nutritionists, though those he promptly deletes.

 

Phil’s putting a lot of time into bringing Hawkeye back from the dead on paper, but it’s all through the impersonal medium of e-mail. At home they’re like strangers, and sometimes Clint isn’t sure Phil even came home the night before except for the growing pile of coffee mugs in the sink.

 

By Thursday Clint’s desperate enough to bring it up at his psych appointment, and after what he thinks was supposed to be reassuring mumbo jumbo he’s left with useless advice – it’s normal, they both need time to adjust, be patient. Be open and honest but don’t push.

 

While the advice does little to quell his frustration it does stop him from chucking his phone through the wall when, for the third day in a row, Phil answers his inquiry about meeting for dinner with a text saying, _don’t wait up._

 

He gets the text while standing over the kitchen sink staring at the collection of mugs. Maybe he’s just tired, or maybe it’s the appointment with psych bringing up memories better left forgotten, but somehow that simply message is enough to undo him. Makes his legs weak and his eyes water, and the fist holding his phone goes to block the gasping breath trying to escape his mouth while he loses the fight with gravity and slides to the floor.

 

Clint can’t stop the tears but manages to hold the sobs back. Sitting on the floor with his back against the cupboards and his legs stretched out in front of him he feels the frustration and fear and hurt of the last few days weigh him down until he thinks he may sink through the floor. 

 

The tempest is brutal but short lived; a few moments later the torrent ebbs until just the wet tracks are left to dry on his heated cheeks. He’s not sure how long he sits there on the cold, hard floor but it’s long enough for his legs to go as numb as the empty space behind his ribs.

 

The kitchen grows dark when the sun sets but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even have the energy to let loose the bitter laugh caught in his throat when the front door opens, and he can hear Phil making his way upstairs where he’ll close himself away for the night.

 

He’s contemplating sleeping where he sits when the vibration of his phone startles him from his lassitude.

 

Half of him wishes he’d taken the time to look at the caller ID, but the other half is so damn relieved to hear Laura’s voice that he nearly cries again. He must not have covered as successfully as he thought because her bright, cheery tone soon turns to concern.

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

He’s not allowed to tell her much of anything, not even his real name (that would require a lot of paperwork, which would have to be signed by Phil, and he’s not ready to even think about that discussion) and yet he finds himself admitting some of what’s happening. That there were people left hurting when he disappeared, that his return has been difficult.

 

She’s calm, gentle, reassuring at the right times and he misses her fiercely for the support he could find in her companionship if not the comfort he found in her arms. No, that’s nothing he will seek from her again, but just being able to talk to her is like a balm.

 

“It’s, well it’s not exactly what I thought I’d find when I left.”

 

She laughs, light and disbelieving. “Oh, I think you found exactly what you were looking for.”

 

He’s confused by her words and can’t decide if she’s hurt or angry or something else. He does the only thing he can think of and starts to apologize, just in case.

 

“Oh, don’t start with that. I don’t fault you for leaving, not even a little bit.” There’s a touch of amusement that’s gone in the next breath. “Jimmy, you once couldn’t sleep because you didn’t understand how someone can feel so wrecked about another person. And now you do, you’ve found that. And if you feel this strongly, then she is clearly worth fighting for.”

 

He chokes on a humorless laugh but doesn’t correct her pronouns – she isn’t cleared to know, and it doesn’t change the heart of the conversation. “It’s not that easy.”

 

“It’s not supposed to be.” There’s a brief pause when he can hear shouting and Max barking in the background from her end. She sighs, “I have to go, I’ll tell the kids you say hi.”

 

“Laura, thank you. You know…” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, how to tell her how much comfort he’s taken from this conversation and the hope he feels rekindled within him.

 

“I do, I know.” There’s another burst of commotion over the line, and this time she groans. “Good luck, Jimmy. And keep in mind I want to meet her someday!”

 

Before he can ask why she’d called in the first place, Laura’s voice fades but he can hear her yelling at the kids before the line disconnects. He laughs, the phone still pressed tightly against his cheek as if he can get closer to that world. Instead he finds himself listening to nothing, sitting on the floor in the dark with a numb backside.

 

Real classy.

 

He laughs. Then laughs louder, letting the mirth wash away much of the despair that had overwhelmed him to begin with. He feels lighter, happier than he’d been all week. Just having a slightly different perspective on the problem is enlightening. The idea that this is something he can fight for, that he doesn’t have to passively wait for everything to sort itself out.

 

No time like the present.

 

Standing he shakes the numbness from his legs and spends a moment stretching. Remembering Laura’s words helps him keep an open smile on his face when he finds himself outside Phil’s bedroom door and knocking on the wood separating them.

 

There’s a longer pause than he’s comfortable with, but eventually the sound of Phil shuffling closer can be heard through the door. The sound of the lock being turned threatens his composure, but he manages to keep the loose, easy expression on his face as the door opens.

 

His first thought is Phil looks tired, but still handsome and strong. In the time since he came home, he’s managed to take his dress shirt off but remains in his slacks and white undershirt, a tuft of chest hair peeking out the V-neck. His beautiful blue eyes are guarded and suspicious, and there’s a frown on his face but Clint feels his heart jump anyway.

 

He must have been staring for longer than he realized because Phil begins to shift impatiently. Kicking himself mentally he nearly stumbles through his reason for being here.

 

“Hey, I was hoping I could get some of my clothes? Living on SHIELD sweats and a single pair of jeans is getting old.” He gives a helpless little shrug.

 

The frown on Phil’s face deepens for a moment, and at first Clint’s worried he’s overstepped the boundaries Phil has set but then he realizes it’s the same look Phil’s always gotten when he thinks he overlooked something Clint needs.

 

“Of course, come in. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.” He steps aside, still holding the door open.

 

Clint’s glad that Phil remains behind him when he enters because he’s suddenly hit with the realization that this is the first time in well over a year that he’s stepped foot in the room they once shared.

 

The sheets on the bed are some of their favorites, and while Phil’s nightstand is characteristically cluttered the one opposite is nearly barren – just the old lamp and alarm clock. It’s like a line has been drawn down the center of the bed, with Phil’s side rumpled and clearly lived in while the other is nearly sterile, the lack of an occupant stark in comparison.

 

He notices all these things in the short time it takes him to cross to his side of the double dresser, pushing his emotions down into a compressed ball sitting in the bottom of his stomach without even a stutter to his step. He’ll deal with that later, for now he has a show to put on.

 

“Thanks.” He starts with the top drawer and pulls out pairs of socks and boxers at random. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

 

“It’s no problem. Take your time.” The automatic responses are belied by the fact that Phil still hasn’t moved away from the door, and he has a death grip on the handle.

 

But it’s the most Phil has said to him directly all week and Clint’s nearly desperate to make it continue. Adding clothes to his pile he keeps a grin on his face and relays the humorous anecdote Nat’d used to describe her latest mission.

 

He’s about finished when he realizes he can’t find one of his favorite shirts – the purple one with a bow on the front and some silly pun about Robin Hood. It was a get-well gift from Natasha after a mission gone wrong and he was hoping to find it.

 

“Do you know where my ‘thanks for not dying in Nottingham’ shirt is?”

 

He’s surprised when Phil turns red and hesitates, but it makes sense when the man comes closer and opens his own t-shirt drawer; the shirt in question sitting right on top. Phil clears his throat before trying to speak, “Sorry, I’d borrowed it. But it’s clean now.”

 

“Oh, no, that’s fine. It fits you better anyway.”

 

Phil actually cracks a smile before responding, “Natasha does seem to enjoy buying your shirts a couple sizes too big. It’s almost like she’s trying to give you a hint.” He gives Clint a playfully pointed look while his hands carefully fold the shirt.

 

It’s a look that’s at once familiar and foreign, and Clint’s heart soars at the memory of other times he’d been on the receiving end of those looks. He just barely stops himself from making an ill-advised comment regarding Phil not complaining about his shirts being too tight before. He has a feeling that would make Phil shut down like it had earlier this week at the doctor’s appointment.

 

Gathering his selection of clothes together he watches Phil set the t-shirt back into the drawer with a fond smile on his face. “New season of Dog Cops started last week. Thought I’d pull it up off the DVR and order in from Wu’s. Care to join me?”

 

There’s a pause. Phil shuts the drawer and hangs his head, not responding but clearly not overly enthusiastic either.

 

Taking a deep breath, he gathers his courage to add, “I’d really like it if you would join me.” Clint waits a few moments more and is debating breaking out the big guns versus admitting defeat when Phil finally nods his head.

 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll call. You want the usual?”

 

“Sounds good.” Clint tries to temper the grin on his face to encouragingly happy from the megawatt smile he’s suppressing. “The usual is perfect. I’ll go put these away and meet you downstairs?”

 

After the way the evening started, it’s amazing how well the night goes. They eat and watch TV and compare the new detective to Agent Hand, laughing until their cheeks ache. Between episodes they clean up together and package the leftovers in actual Tupperware before returning to the show, where Clint tries to hide his glee when Phil takes his usual spot on the couch next to him rather than the chair he’d started in.

 

Once the show’s over they share fortune cookie wisdom while the credits for the last episode play. They start comparing fortunes they can remember getting in the past, and by the end Clint’s just making up more and more outlandish fortunes in order to keep hearing Phil laugh. 

 

Eventually their mirth comes to a natural conclusion, and before the silence can get uncomfortable Phil declares bedtime. When they stand together there’s an awkward pause spent looking at each other, unsure how to end the evening.

 

“Thanks for this, Clint. I needed the break.” Phil’s tone is soft and genuine, as is his smile. Lifting one arm he hesitates before patting Clint on the shoulder a couple times, letting his hand rest there and squeeze once, then pulls away.

 

But Clint is having none of it. Before Phil can fully turn, he’s grasping the other man’s wrist to halt his movement, causing Phil to look at him with a frown and one eyebrow raised in question. Going slow and telegraphing his movements, Clint manages to slowly wrap his arms around his husband, pulling him close for a few precious seconds.

 

While Phil doesn’t stop him, he also doesn’t encourage the hug, and Clint reluctantly lets him go when he remains stiff and unyielding in his arms. “Let’s do this again soon?” He tries not to sound pathetically hopeful but knows he failed.

 

“Yeah, of course.” Phil assures him with a soft smile. He hesitates for a moment looking at Clint, then gives a nod and turns away, making a quick escape out of the room and upstairs.

 

Clint’s left standing in the living room feeling like he missed first base on the second date. Shaking his head at himself he finishes tidying up and turns off the lights, heading to bed. For the first time that week he goes to sleep with a light heart and quiet mind.

 

***

 

The next day Phil leaves for a week-long mission. He doesn’t say goodbye.

 

***

 


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

 

With two days left until the expected end of Phil’s mission, Clint’s still pissed.

 

Shortly after Phil departed, Clint had discovered the mission was assigned from the emergency call up list. While SHIELD monitors various global threats and has contingencies planned for nearly all of their active ops, or at least have response teams available, occasionally there are completely unexpected catastrophes that pop up. Natural disasters or the untimely death of a high-ranking member of a criminal organization may leave communities throughout the world vulnerable, leaving other groups or political parties vying for control. Other times it’s the stereotypical bad guys - drug, gun, and sex traffickers, terrorists and extremists - taking advantage of the confusion to further their goals. SHIELD then sends in an emergency response team to deal with the situation and try to steer the outcome.

 

All SHIELD agents are on the call up list in some form, from the highest levels to the newbies – if you aren’t on an active op or injured, you would be considered to join the response team. Despite the pyramidal hierarchy structure of SHIELD levels, even high-level agents were unlikely to be called up more than once every year or two. Those agents are not Phil Coulson. His ability to adapt on the fly makes him the ideal leader in volatile situations, and he’s been called out more often than most agents his level, usually with Strike Team Delta.

 

Getting mad at the system is pointless. It’s as fair as it can be and for the most part everyone shares the burden.

 

The problem is that Phil shouldn’t have been on the list right now. Knowing that SHIELD agents already sacrifice so much for the job and leave so little for their loved ones, there are exceptions to the ‘on call’ rule. Not only can agents request preferred holidays each year and big family events, but they can also request time for family medical leave. While most agents would think the return of an amnesic spouse might qualify as such a time, apparently Phil didn’t think it was important enough to take his name off the list.

 

Didn’t think Clint was important enough.

 

Clint grimaces at the pull in his shoulders when he aims his next shot and releases, finding solace in the satisfying thwack of the arrow embedding in a far-away target. His strength and endurance are fast improving, but he’s been pushing it this week out of desperation to escape his self-depreciating thoughts.

 

He’s drawing back his next shot when the door opens. There aren’t many who would bother him while he’s shooting, and it’s after hours so that cuts the list even further. The footsteps are heavy so that rules out Natasha. He can hear his visitor take a seat at the bench against the wall by the door but doesn’t stop shooting.

 

Hopefully whoever it is will get bored and leave him alone.

 

“He’s an idiot.” Ah, no such respect for his solitude then.

 

“You’ll have to be more specific, sir. I know a lot of idiots.” He consciously loosens his grip on the arrow in his hands. There’s no way he’s ready for this conversation.

 

“You only married one that I know of.”

 

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re still sore about that.” He gives up pretending to shoot but doesn’t turn to face Fury.

 

The shovel talk he’d endured from the one-eyed wonder on Phil’s behalf had been short but brutal, and Clint sure as hell isn’t looking forward to whatever protective bullshit he’s here to peddle.

 

Fury gives a huff of a laugh. “I knew medical was blowing smoke up my ass – you must still be brain damaged.”

 

“Must be.”

 

“You done feeling sorry for yourself?”

 

Clint’s jaw tightens, and he clenches his teeth to stop from telling Fury to fuck off, though he’s sure it still comes across in his tone. “What would be the point? I assume you’re here to remind me yet again that I’m not good enough for him? Seems like I’m right where you want me.”

 

His closes the lid of his bow case harder than intended as the anger begins to take over. Slinging his quiver over one shoulder he slides the case off the table, turning towards the door without looking at Fury.

 

“We done here?” Even he’s not willing to walk out on the Director of SHIELD, especially when he’s still on probation. Especially especially when the man already hates his guts and thinks that the only mistake one Phillip J. Coulson ever made was marrying him.

 

There’s a loud smacking sound as a brown folder lands on the floor in front of him, sliding the last few inches to stop against the toe of his boot.

 

“Read that, asshole.”

 

Clint hesitates, curiosity peaked but not quite willing to play into whatever game this is.

 

“Now, Barton.”

 

Slowly he bends, setting the bow case down in exchange for the folder before standing again. It’s thin, containing only a dozen or so pages. The first thing he notices is that the sheets aren’t redacted – these must have come directly from Fury’s Eye Only files. The second thing he notices is the familiar signature in the bottom corner of the first page, Phil’s neat scrawl pressed firmly into the paper.

 

The top sheet he recognizes as the final section of an AAR, where the handler makes their final remarks and recommendations. Starting to read the typed content it’s clear the preceding page is missing, but it doesn’t detract from the content.

 

_… and despite the unconventional methods Agent Barton managed to apprehend, contain, and recruit the Black Widow. As demonstrated in the multiple examples provided in Section XII with addendum C, Agent Barton managed to exemplify SHIELD values during this time. As is befitting his position as a Level 5 Field Operative, he showed remarkable initiative, ingenuity, dedication, and composure in recruiting an invaluable addition to SHIELD._

_This, in combination with his indispensable skills (Section XVI for references to Agent Barton’s personnel file and prior mission performances) and commendable years of service support immediate dismissal of the charges of insubordination and conspiracy leveled against Agent Barton._

 

It’s dated 05 Sept 1995. He’d still been cooling his heels in SHIELD’s brig at the time. While he knew Phil had played an integral part in getting him released, this page is labeled 48 of 48, and that doesn’t include however many addendums were attached. It must have taken Phil days to complete despite the anger he undoubtedly was feeling at the time.

 

When he glances at Fury the man just raises his eyebrows and nods toward the folder still in Clint’s hands, so he reads on.

 

The next page is their application for cohabitation, filled out perfectly with both his and Phil’s signatures at the bottom. Right next to their names is a single word written in bold, capital letters: FINALLY. He could be wrong, but it looks like Fury’s hand writing.

 

It’s followed by a copy of Form HR26.I7 - a request for extension of an MIA status to prevent default into KIA status. Keeping Clint’s status MIA would allow Phil to apply for the use of SHIELD resources to continue looking for him, but also would have prevented Phil from receiving any of the benefits to which he was entitled, including changing his status to widower and allowing him to find a new partner.

 

There are fourteen copies in total, each dated on the 1st of the month covering the past year and a quarter. Despite the clear lack of supporting evidence in Box 12b Fury’s signature stands out clear on each, approving the extension. It’s surprising because Clint thought Fury would take the first opportunity to write him off he could get.

 

The final page is the table of contents to what promises to be a massive amount of documentation supporting the _Full Reinstatement and Reintegration of Agent Clinton Francis Barton, AKA Hawkeye_. It’s dated three days ago.

 

“Phil’s always been better with paperwork than with people, you know.”

 

Clint doesn’t respond, still trying to understand what he’s holding in his hand – evidence that Phil maybe isn’t as indifferent as he’s appeared. A few moments later he remembers there’s an audience. Stuffing the pages back into the folder he slides his hands behind his back and settles into something like parade rest.

 

“Is that all, sir?”

 

He can practically feel Fury’s eye boring into him, but he doesn’t fidget, doesn’t give the man the satisfaction of seeing how unsettled he is. He’s nearly successful, too, until Fury says something he never expected to hear from the Director of SHIELD.

 

“Dammit, Clint. I’m sorry.”

 

He snaps his attention to Fury, mouth slack in shock. He has no idea what the man could be apologizing for, and he’s never heard Fury speak his first name. Ever.

 

And he’s certainly never seen even a ghost of regret settled on the monocular features before, let alone the deep weariness and, dare he say it, remorse.

 

“I’m shit at this stuff, and while I may never understand what you share with Phil, I know you’re both better for it.” He stands abruptly. “So, forgive an old man his over-protectiveness.”  


He stops in front of Clint and holds out his right hand. Still in shock Clint reacts automatically, sliding his own hand into Fury’s to shake.  It’s quick but powerful, and not just in a tangible sense.

 

Fury gives a faint nod to the file still held in Clint’s hand. “He’s an idiot but he loves you, even if he doesn’t know how to show it right now.”

 

Fury takes a step back and it’s like shrugging on a new coat – the cocky attitude and subtly angry jaw thrust is back, and Clint realizes it’s as much a mask as Phil’s Bland Agent Coulson look.

 

“Get your shit together, Barton. I need Strike Team Delta back in the field.” He stalks away without another word, but Clint’s finally able to translate what he’s saying through the brash attitude: Take care of yourself and come back to work. Phil and Natasha need you.

 

A pep talk from Nicholas J Fury. Who’d have known?

 

***

 

 When Phil comes home, he’s practically dragging himself through the door. It’s a bit earlier than Clint expected him, having thought he’d stay to debrief and get a start on his AAR, but it only takes one glance to understand why.

 

Phil’s face is pinched, eyelids pulling down and neck stiff; the sure signs of a migraine. He barely glances at Clint before trying to bypass him for the stairs, insisting he’s fine and just needs a nap. While that’s true, Clint knows he also needs food, meds, and water before he sleeps.

 

He directs Phil to the couch, surprised when he barely resists; he must be feeling much worse than he appears, and he already looks terrible. Once Phil’s sitting, Clint gently removes his tie and jacket, folding them neatly before he bends to pull off Phil’s shoes and socks. He leaves Phil leaning back but upright, heals of his hands pressed firmly against his eyes as his only concession to the pain.

 

Depositing the folded clothes on the stairs, he heads to the downstairs bathroom for Tylenol and a cool washcloth, then swings by the kitchen for a glass of apple juice for Phil – the sugar will help until he can get food into the man. Returning to the living room he closes the curtains to block out the evening sun before persuading Phil into dropping his arms. It takes a few moments of prodding before Phil swallows down the pills and most of the juice.

 

That done, he pushes against Phil’s shoulder until he starts tipping to the left, gently poking and prodding until he’s lying down on the sofa with a pillow under his knees and the cool washcloth over his eyes.

 

And just like he’s done countless times before when Phil has been in this position, Clint runs a hand through the thinning hair and follows that up with the gentle press of his lips to Phil’s forehead. It’s instinctual, it’s natural, done without thinking about it.

 

It’s a mistake. He knows they aren’t there yet, and that’s only reinforced when Phil goes still. They’re both frozen, hardly daring to breath as they wait each other out. Clint’s stomach clenches, though he isn’t sure if it’s with trepidation or hope.

 

Eventually Phil blows out a breath but doesn’t say anything, relaxing into the cushions and turning his head away. Clint waits a moment more, almost wishing Phil would yell or tell him off, or maybe return some sign of affection. Really any kind of emotive response would be appreciated right now.

 

He waits a while more but it’s clear Phil’s only pretending to sleep, so he takes himself off to the kitchen with the hope that Phil will stop resisting the nap he desperately needs if he isn’t being watched over.

 

The fridge and cupboards are stocked but he goes for the canned tomato basil soup instead – Phil’s go-to when he’s tired beyond the ability to function and sick on top of that. While that’s heating, he puts together a couple of grilled cheese and ham sandwiches. It’s early evening and he’s hoping that if Phil gets a full belly now, he’ll be able to sleep the night through.

 

With the food plated and the stove off he goes to wake Phil, stopping short when he finds the couch empty. For the second time in under an hour he finds himself staring, but this time it’s anger that takes precedence. He’s at the top of the stairs, hand raised to pound on Phil’s bedroom door before he catches himself.

 

After swallowing down the irritation and taking a few deep breathes, he lowers his hand and uses just his knuckles to tap on the door. There’s no response and he can just barely hear the rusting of fabric, so he taps again, just a little bit louder. When there’s still no response he decides he should go, let Phil get his rest, but before he can turn around his attention’s drawn to the door handle.

 

There’s nothing special to look at it, but he finds his hand reaching out of curiosity. He recalls the sound of the lock disengaging the last time he stood here and wonders if Phil’s still locking him out, literally as well as figuratively. His fingers are practically touching the cool metal, just a centimeter more and he could wrap them around the handle.

 

With a sigh he drops his hand to his side, resting his forehead against the still closed door.

 

“Phil? There’s food downstairs, I’ll leave yours in the oven in case you want it later.” He whispers, knowing that if Phil’s awake, he’ll be able to hear him. “Feel better.”

 

***

 

Two nights later Clint’s surprised to see Phil back downstairs, hanging back in the door way to the living room like he’s trying to decide if he’s welcome. Clint gives him a bright smile, “Hey, I saved the new episodes of Super Nanny. Wanna watch?”

 

Phil frowns and shakes his head when Clint holds the remote out towards him. “No, thank you. I--” He pauses and blows out a breath, like he’s either lost his thought or decided to take a different approach, clearly here for some reason in particular. Clint turns off the TV and turns his full attention towards Phil.

 

“I over-heard you on the phone today…” It feels like the bottom of Clint’s stomach drops out, threatening to pull him down with it.

 

He knows exactly what Phil’s talking about. He’d gotten a call from Laura and answered it without thinking, only to be nearly deafened by Lila screeching his fake name. She had been so excited to tell him about her role in the Christmas pageant, and he’d encouraged her to tell him more about the practices they were doing and how Jenny in the fourth grade gets to put the star on the tree because she’s the tallest. All of which she did in her loudest voice possible.

 

“And will you come? I want you to be here!” She was so excited, and he couldn’t help but to reassure her.

 

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ll try my hardest to be there.” She squeals one last time and calls for her mom, but somehow in the shuffle she must have accidentally hung up because the line suddenly went dead. He’d shaken his head and was about to call back when he’d heard a faint exhale that wasn’t his own.

 

Turning quick he’d found Phil standing in the door way. His characteristic Bland Agent Coulson mask wasn’t enough to cover what was clearly despair and heartache. Clint had opened his mouth to try to explain, to soothe Phil in some way but the damn phone had gone off in his hand. The sound seemed to break through to Phil and he’d managed to pull himself together, give a curt nod, and leave by the time the phone finished the second ring.

 

 “I can explain, it’s jus…” He gets cut off when Phil holds up one hand in a clear cease and desist motion.

 

“I think it’s rather self-explanatory.” There’s an edge to Phil’s voice, and he looks away before continuing. His voice is carefully flat when he next speaks. “In light of your… conversation, I thought you might be interested in knowing your application for reinstatement is complete and should be approved shortly. Once that’s done, your security clearance will be reestablished.”

 

Clint waits for him to go on, because he doesn’t understand the connection. “Oh, thanks. Good to know.”

 

The look Phil gives him is withering, like he’s being purposefully difficult. “Once you have your clearance back, you’ll be able to apply for permission to tell them who you really are.” He gathers himself again, runs a hand over his tie, and drops his eyes to the floor. “You’ll also be able to file for separation.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Phil shrugs, either not noticing or willfully ignoring the anger in Clint’s voice. “You’d be free to go wherever you want without SHIELD coming after you, and still have the benefits you’ve earned for your years of service.”

 

Phil flinches at Clint’s raised voice but doesn’t take his eyes off the floor. “Divorce? Is that what you’re implying?” He’s standing now, and it’s probably a good thing the couch is between them. Not that he would hurt Phil, not ever, but distance is a good idea right now.

 

“You damned coward! That’s why you’ve been working so hard to get my paperwork done? So you can be rid of me?” The walls feel like they’re closing in with every heartbeat that fills the silence between them. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice, broken and hoarse when he gives his parting words. “Fuck you, Phil.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a little more insight to Phil's state of mind from his POV... I ended up combining chapter 29 and 30, so this is a bit longer and will decrease the overall chapter count.

Chapter 29

 

The slamming of the front door echoes in Phil’s ears, but not enough to cover the venom in Clint’s parting words. Before he even walked into this conversation his legs had felt weak and jittery, and now he allows gravity to take over as he slides down the wall.

 

He feels boneless, limbs heavy and limp. The floor’s cold but he hardly feels it.

 

“Exactly, fuck me,” he mutters to the empty room. There’s no doubt he played this wrong, and he’s beginning to realize it’s just the latest in a long line of mistakes he’s made.

 

Because he still hasn’t allowed himself to believe Clint has returned, that he might stay. Because he’s afraid to love Clint again for fear he’ll leave, that his heart belongs to someone else. Because he refuses to even talk to the man for fear of losing himself. Because it’s far easier to shut him out.

 

He thinks back to that first night Clint walked back into his life. The tentative hope they’d shared but he’d hardly allowed himself to trust in, let alone show. The ease with which he’d fallen back to Clint’s side as they’d run errands Saturday morning, and the reality check of Laura’s phone call.  He’d been able to hear the concern in her voice, and his treacherous mind had brought forth the memory of her in Clint’s arms, smiling at each other.  

 

The depression set in hard and fast after that, and he’d surrendered to it entirely.

 

Looking back, he’s embarrassed by his ability to make excuses for his own cowardice. Staying late at the office to fill in paperwork rather than work on their actual relationship, advancing Hawkeye back to agent status but not bothering to spend time with Clint. Taking the assignment in Murmansk instead of staying home where he was needed.

 

All of it because he was afraid to stay and watch Clint walk away. And now he’s pushed Clint into leaving anyway.

 

In some twisted part of his heart Phil thought he’d be relieved to see Clint go, thought it would finally put this chapter to rest and let him move on. That Clint would go happily back to the life he’d left in Wyoming, leaving Phil to the bachelor existence he’d been destined for before the archer came into his life.

 

Phil’s an idiot. From start to finish, he’s played this all wrong. And now it’s too late, the pieces that had survived are too far scattered.

 

His gut roils uneasily, but he forces himself to stand, to move. He would have thought heartbreak would be more painful, but he just feels empty, bereft. He prides himself on his ability to hide emotions behind a patented bland mask, but now there’s nothing to hide. It’s like he’s been through the heartache, and there’s not enough heart left to ache.

 

He gets ready for bed on autopilot, movements mechanical and stilted. He empties his bladder, washes his hands and brushes his teeth. He changes into pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Turns down the sheets and slides into bed, shuts off the light.

 

In the pitch dark he lies awake, not thinking and not feeling, just… vacant.

 

***

 

Phil didn’t sleep and Clint didn’t come home, but the look Natasha gives him the next morning makes it clear where Clint sought refuge. There’s no point in trying to defend himself from her rage, so he turns around and walks away instead. Avoidance had never been his style before, but it seems the only thing he’s capable of these days.

 

Fueled by SHIELD’s sludge-like coffee he throws himself into work, distracting himself with forms and numbers and email. He makes it through his meetings, and even manages to clear his to-do list to get a start on upcoming projects. By the time he’s started crunching numbers for next year’s budget the floor’s empty and it’s well past dark. He’s just considering the merits of sleeping on the couch in his office when Jasper leans in the door, asking if Phil could spare some advice on the walk out.

 

Rather than admit his plan to stay the night, he’d secured his office and followed Jasper down to the lobby. From there his pride hadn’t allowed him to go back upstairs, so he’d gone home.

 

Now he stands just inside the front door, leaning back against the heavy wood and feeling the darkness press around him like a physical presence. It takes him many long minutes before he overcomes the inertia to push away, slide off his shoes and move forward.

 

Everything is exactly the same as when he’d left that morning. He turns on the living room lights, chasing shadows from the corners but it just serves to highlight the lack of another presence in the house. Only a few days and he’s already unaccustomed to the silence, to Clint’s absence even though he’d spent the last couple weeks avoiding the other man.

 

He contemplates the stocked pantry before putting a bag of popcorn into the microwave and filling a glass of water, taking both to the couch. He settles for some sitcom he doesn’t know the name of because he can’t be bothered to change the channel.

 

When the episode ends, he crushes the remaining popcorn in the bag and sets it on the coffee table, downs the rest of his water and then piles the pillows on one end of the couch. He slips slideways onto the pillows and pulls a blanket over himself.

 

He leaves the TV muted in the background and throws one arm over his eyes to protect from the light, letting the empty space inside his chest spread to encompass the rest of him.

 

***

 

Phil wakes with a gasping cry, sitting upright and looking around the room wildly.

 

He can’t have been asleep long – the late-night news is still on. The house is empty and quiet, nothing out of place.

 

Yet he remains paralyzed with fear, his heart beating wildly, and his breathing labored. His limbs begin to shake when he remembers what woke him.

 

He’d dreamt that Clint had never come home. That the last few weeks were some vivid hallucination.  And the worst part is there’s nothing to counter that fear; he’s not sure which was the dream.

 

It’s too much like the time before, when he’d wake up to a dark house with only his own breathing as a companion. Even now there’s no sign that anyone else has lived in this space since Clint went on that fateful mission all those months ago.

 

Before he’s even thought to move Phil’s scrambling off the couch, kicking the blanket away and ignoring the pain of his shin catching the edge of the coffee table.  He hurries up the stairs and down the hall, throwing open the last door on the right.

 

The light hurts his eyes at first and he has to blink spots away before focusing.

 

The bed sheets are pulled up but rumpled, a pair of sleeping pants and t-shirt thrown over the end. There’s a phone charger plugged in but empty on the bedside table, a book holding the cord in place. The duffle bag he’d packed for Clint after his surgery is lying folded on the floor beside the dresser.

 

Relief washes over him so quickly that he finds his legs barely support his stumble towards the bed.

 

His breath stutters as the emptiness that had taken residence inside him implodes, crumpling under the onslaught of emotions he’s managed to hold at bay until now and it’s overwhelming. Choking back sobs he can’t quite stop the tears from gathering, squeezing out from under his clenched eyelids to be caught in the fabric of the t-shirt he’s pressed against his face.

 

After, he won’t be able to say how long he sat there, eventually falling sideways to curl up on his side as he let the grief pour out, taking with it the pain and doubt and anger. He cries for himself and for Clint, for their past and their future, uncertain as it is. The maelstrom washes out the fear that’s been paralyzing him, but it leaves him breathless and exhausted.

 

He falls asleep where he lies, his dreams blessedly quiet.

 

***

 

To say the world seems like a different place the next day is both an over and understatement. His bad knee still aches, his eyes are gritty with fatigue, and yet the weight in his shoulders feels more like a challenge than a burden. It feels like a fire driving him forward rather than a rock holding him back, and his spine is straight and tall for the first time in what feels like months.

 

He attacks the day, taking pride in his work rather than hiding in it like he’s been doing. Even Maria looks at him askance during the senior agents meeting, like she’s trying to figure out what’s different. He sends his last email by 1500, then checks the schedule he’s got pulled up on his computer one last time before shutting everything down and locking the door on his way out. When he steps into the gym where Natasha is sparring with Bobbi Morse, the room goes quiet. It’s just the three of them – the Widow sometimes tires of having an audience for her matches, and will reserve the smaller senior agent gym for private use. He allows a self-conscious smile when Nat gives him a side-eyed glare, acknowledging her anger with a slight nod.

 

“Agent Morse, I was hoping for a word with Agent Romanoff. Alone, if you would.”

 

Phil is impressed – he can barely see the concern when she looks to Natasha for agreement, but it also makes him wonder what his reputation is these days to warrant such a reaction. A few moments later she’s pulling on a long sleeve shirt over her sweaty tank top, then gives him a long look before taking her leave. He wonders if she learned the scowling-without-a-scowl from Romanoff.

 

When she’s gone, he turns back to address Natasha, “I know I’ve let you down, and…”

 

“You let Clint down.”

 

“And I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again.” He says, slowly approaching her with his arms outspread in a sign of surrender. “In fact, I’m certain I’ll disappoint you and him again before this is over. If it ever is. I know words don’t mean much to you, and I don’t want your forgiveness or your trust until I earn it.”

 

He stops just outside arms reach and folds his hands together in front of himself.

 

“So why are you here? Shouldn’t you be telling this to Clint?”

 

“Yes, and I will. I’m here because you deserve an apology for how much of an ass I’ve been this year.” He gives a good-natured shrug and can see her beginning to thaw. “And I guess you could say this is practice - he’s the one person who scares me more than you.”

 

She scoffs. “He’s a pushover.”

 

“I know. That’s why I’m afraid.”

 

She looks up, frowning in her confusion.

 

“Despite his faith in me, Clint’s always been the strong one, the brave one. And yet I’m terrified of the power I hold over him, that he’ll let me in and I’ll fail him again.” 

 

“And what about his hold over you?”

 

“We both know that he has the power to destroy me, intentionally or not.” It’s an admission and an apology all in one, and she nods.

 

“You might want to try more groveling when you see him.” Her tone is teasing but her eyes are sharp, and he hears what she didn’t say – Clint has been badly hurt.

 

“He said he’d be home by 1700. Let him know I won’t be in tonight - forgot I have plans with Bobbi.”

 

The way she says it makes him think she means as more than friends, and her crooked smile as she bends to pick up her things confirms it. “You’ve missed quite a lot, stuck in your head.”

 

He certainly can’t disagree with that, but the guilt, which just days ago would have crippled him, doesn’t come. Instead, he has the desire to do better, to remember that she needs friends, too.

 

Together they turn to leave, and before he can say anything more about her revelation she says, “You’re both brave, both strong, but you’re both more so when together.”

 

She rests a gentle hand on his arm before moving past him and out the door, leaving him hoping there’s enough left between him and Clint to prove her right.

 

***

 

“May I come in?”

 

Clint’s face had shut-down hard when he’d found Phil at the door, and he’s staring out at him with barely concealed cynicism. “If I say no?” “I’ll leave, but I’ll come back. And I’ll keep coming back until you at least let me apologize.” He takes a deep breath and smooths a hand down his tie before continuing. “If you’re going for efficiency, it’d be best to let me in now. I will respect any answer you give after I explain.”

 

“Jesus, Phil…” Clint says under his breath. “It’s Nat you have to worry about anyway, if she catches you here.”

 

“She asked me to tell you - she has plans tonight and won’t be home.”

 

Clint pauses in surprise, “You made it past Nat? Huh, I guess this must be good.”

 

“No, not good.” He waits until Clint’s eyes meet his. “Honest.”

 

Clint appraises him for a tense moment, but eventually he shrugs and moves further inside, leaving the door partially open for Phil to push through. He does, closing it behind himself while looking around the small but tidy apartment. Clint’s standing by the couch and turned away from him, folding a blanket he’d picked up from what was likely his recent bed.

 

Knowing that he’s responsible for the tension in Clint’s spine is enough to push Phil into speaking. “I, uh, want to say that I take full responsibility for my behavior the last couple of weeks, both my actions and, I think more importantly, my inaction.”

 

Clint huffs out a breath and gives him a quick look from the side of his eye, then refocuses on lining up the edges of the blanket in his hands.

 

_This is Clint, not a debrief._ He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out with an admission, “I was an ass.”

 

That makes Clint pause. He drops the folded blanket onto the couch before slowly turning, not saying anything, just watching Phil but at least now there’s curiosity in his gaze. And, unsurprisingly, agreement.

 

“I’d planned it out in my head, it sounded better in there. But, uh, it all comes down to me being an ass.”

 

“I know. But why? Dammit, Phil, I was doing my best and you threw it back in my face when you…” He trails off, hands on his hips and head back, and his voice is barely audible when he adds, “Not sure you could have aimed lower than that one.”

 

“Not even if I tried.”

 

“If you tried? What would that have looked like? Hmm? A packed bag and a plane ticket?” He’s not yelling, but his voice has gained strength – combined with the accusation it’s enough to make Phil flinch. “Why? At least tell me that.”  


Phil sighs, knowing his answer won’t be satisfactory even as he mutters, “I don’t know.”

 

Clint growls in frustration, running his hands roughly through his hair.

 

“But Andrew thinks it was self-sabotage in an attempt to protect myself. Sub-consciously, of course.”

 

“‘Of course.’” Clint huffs, but there’s curiosity in his voice when he asks, “Since when have you been talking to Garner?”

 

“Since today.” He takes a chance and moves a few steps closer to Clint before adding, “Though admittedly I should have taken him up on the offer to talk much sooner.”

 

He motions his intent to sit before taking a seat on the couch. Clint mirrors his action, sitting on the coffee table so they’re still facing each other, and Phil swallows hard against the memory of the last time they’d been like this.

 

“Did it help?” Clint asks.

 

“Talking with Andrew? Yes, and no. It helped me realize that I needed to be talking to you.”

 

“I was right here, Phil. Anytime, you could have talked to me anytime.”

 

“I know. You did everything right, Clint, this is on me.” He pauses, trying to organize his thoughts. “I, uh, didn’t handle your disappearance well. At all. You know that but I don’t think you understand exactly what that means. I didn’t really understand until you’d gone again… until I’d driven you away.”

 

“But _why_ , Phil? Fury told me you kept looking for me, and then I’m here and you, what, gave up?”

 

Phil sighs – he’s still trying to figure out his reactions for himself, let alone being able to explain himself. “I think, and I stress think, because I’m not entirely sure myself - I think that, after a while, it wasn’t about hope. The search became a security blanket, a means of refusing to move on. By the time I found you, you were safe and happy with Laura, and I felt like I could no longer give you either of those things. I, uh, I’m still having trouble believing I can.”

 

“You can’t.” The level of bitter frustration in Clint’s voice makes Phil flinch, but the rest of his words make him wish he could disappear entirely. “Not like you’ve been doing, anyway. You said you wanted to work through everything, but you lied. Phil, you _lied_ to me.”

 

Phil hangs his head. There’s not much he can say to the accusation when, even if it wasn’t his intent, he did mislead Clint by not being open about his own misgivings and hesitations. Because as much as he’s been worried about trusting Clint’s intentions, he hasn’t given Clint any reason to trust him in return.

 

When he doesn’t say anything, can’t come up with anything to fill the silence, Clint blows out a breath and leans forward with elbows on his knees. “Do you want me to go?”

 

“No!” Clint looks up at his vehement response, and their eyes lock. “No, Clint, absolutely not. That’s why I’m here, because you leaving was a wake-up call.”

 

When Clint looks like he’s about to refute him, he reaches out a hand to wrap around Clint’s forearm, effectively distracting him so he can continue. “I’m going to mess up again; this is me admitting that. But this is also me acknowledging that I am the problem – not you, not the situation – me. This is me saying I need help - from you, from Andrew - but that I’m ready and willing to receive it.”

 

Clint’s staring at Phil’s hand on his arm, and his words are slow when he asks, “So what happens now?”

 

“That’s up to you, I think. I know I hurt you and I don’t really have any right to ask for forgiveness. But maybe we could start moving forward. Together, this time.”

 

Silence descends between them, Clint still staring down. After a minute he brings his free hand up to rest over Phil’s, his thumb rubbing gently over the band on Phil’s finger. He hardly dares to breath waiting for Clint to give an answer, but he meant it when he’d promised to respect whatever decision he gets.

 

“I miss you, Phil. I miss us.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“But we’re a long way away from there.”

 

 Ah, here it comes. He swallows thickly before agreeing, preparing to excuse himself with what pride he has left.

 

“I need to know, right now, if you’re really in for this. This is a good first step, but I still have a lot of questions and there’s a lot of answers I owe you, too.” 

 

“I was being sincere when I said I don’t necessarily have answers myself, but I promise to answer as truthfully and honestly as I can.”

 

“Even when it’s hard?”

 

“Especially if it’s hard.” He places his spare hand on top of their pile of limbs with a subtle grin, “Though, as we’ve found, it’s unlikely to be pretty.”

 

Clint grins too and rests his forehead on their hands with a playfully tortured groan. “God, it’s a good thing Nat’s not here.”

 

The segue confuses him for a moment until Clint lifts his head to reveal tears in his eyes.

 

“Well, we could head home?”

 

“Yeah,” Clint sniffs. “Yeah, that works.”

 

***

 

The evening passes in awkward starts and stops, stilted sentences and broken words as they try to bridge the distance between them. Phil’s guilt and regret hang like a cloud, but to his credit he doesn’t shy away from making his apologies or Clint’s questions when they come up.

 

Still, by the time they finish dinner (eaten at the breakfast bar instead of in front of the TV) and clean up, Clint’s exhausted. He notices Phil’s dragging as well, and after wiping the kitchen counter one last time, he declares bedtime.

 

While he heads for the stairs, Phil seems to hesitate, but before he can ask Phil mutters something about checking the door and heads down the hall. He contemplates going after him but instead continues upstairs – if Phil needs a few minutes to himself, he deserves it. And of he wants to avoid the awkwardness of going to sleep in separate rooms, Clint’s feeling generous.

 

Despite all they’ve discussed tonight, they haven’t talked about what happens now. Specifically, how close Phil wants to be. Starting with the hand on his arm, Phil’s been rather free with the physical touches tonight – nothing dramatic; brushing past each other while cooking and cleaning, a hand on the shoulder, nudging elbows while they ate. But Clint remembers how a hug had sent Phil running half way across the globe, and he’s not willing to jeopardize the fragile peace between them no matter how much he’d love to fall asleep wrapped in Phil’s arms. God, he misses the feel of being pulled close to that strong chest.

 

Shaking his head to clear the longing from his mind, he rinses out his mouth and turns off the light on his way out of the bathroom.  He may prefer to sleep in a different bed, but he can’t deny this one is at least more comfortable than Nat’s couch - he’d woken with knots the size of his fist this morning, the only surprise being he’d managed to sleep at all. At one point he’d considered giving it up and heading back to his shoebox at SHIELD, but after the fight with Phil he’d just been too damn lonely to willingly go.

 

Now, tucked into bed in the dark, he remembers that you don’t have to be by yourself to feel alone.

 

***

The sound of a door opening wakes him sometime in the dark hours of the morning, and he spends a few disorienting seconds figuring out why that’s disturbing before he notices the sound of quiet footfalls coming closer. He listens as Phil pauses outside of his door, can see the shadows move when he shifts his weight, but he doesn’t knock. Puzzled, Clint is already out of bed before he hears a stifled sigh and steps moving away, so he hurries to the door and opens it before Phil can disappear.

 

“Phil?” He asks, concern leaking into his voice when he takes in the other man’s appearance. He looks ragged as he turns slowly with a sheepish grimace.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He whispers, hands folding together in front of him like he’s holding back from reaching out.

 

Clint considers denying it, but instead pushes the door open wider and steps back, invitation clear in the gesture. “Wanna talk about it?” He shrugs when Phil hesitates, adding, “Just talk, and hopefully some sleep in the end.”

 

He waits until he sees Phil’s weight shift forward before leading the way into the room, trusting - hoping - Phil will follow. Clint’s already back in bed, covers bunching around his waist as he holds himself up on his elbows when Phil comes close enough to lean against the doorframe. Phil still has his arms crossed protectively over his chest, so Clint reaches across and pulls the covers down on the other side of the bed. “Trust me?”

 

“It’s not you I don’t trust.” He doesn’t sound bitter or angry, just resigned, tired. “I’m sorry, I— It was just a bad dream. I should let you get some sleep.”

 

“You don’t have to go. Phil, I’m right here.” Clint takes a deep breath before adding, “Please. Don’t go.”

 

The request seems to decide it for Phil, who nods and finally moves into the room. He doesn’t look at Clint as he climbs into bed settling onto his back and pulling the sheets over himself.

 

“You want to talk about it?”

 

“Not really, it’s just…”

 

Still flat on his back Phil turns his head to look at Clint, but there’s embarrassment in his expression.

 

Clint hates it.

 

“Don’t you dare apologize again,” Clint cuts off Phil when he starts to speak. He softens his tone before adding, “I’m glad you’re here.”

 

Clint rolls up onto his side facing Phil, arm under his pillow. He focuses on relaxing into the mattress, keeping his expression soft and open as Phil studies him for a few moments more.

 

“Stay?”

 

Clint carefully doesn’t flinch at Phil’s heartbreakingly soft question, though it does confirm his suspicions about what Phil’s dream was about. He pokes Phil in the shoulder until he rolls up onto his side, allowing Clint to slide into place behind him and wrap an arm around Phil’s waist.

 

Pulling Phil close he whispers in his ear, “Sleep. I’ll be here.”

 

***

 

Clint’s pulled abruptly from the deepest sleep he’s had in months by movement beside him. He’s still struggling to get his eyes open and limbs to move when he hears Phil’s voice in his ear.

 

“Hush, I’ll be back in a moment. Go back to sleep.”

 

That sounds like solid advice, so he allows himself to do just that, falling back into a visionless dream of safety and comfort.

 

He can’t say how much time passes before he next becomes aware; it could have been minutes or hours before he recognizes the feel of Phil watching him. It brings a smile to his face as he reaches forward, finding his husband close by and curling his fingers in the shirt Phil’s wearing. He gives a gentle tug and is rewarded by Phil’s soft laugh.

 

Clint frowns sleepily and tugs again but Phil still resists, gripping his wrist tightly for just a moment before letting go in a clear request to desist. Still not opening his eyes Clint tries his best puppy dog pout without success – Phil gives a fondly exasperated sigh but doesn’t move closer.

 

He’s nearly asleep again when he feels a feather light touch against his face. The pressure deepens just slightly but enough for him to recognize Phil’s fingers grazing along his cheek, tracing the outline of his jaw, traveling the arch of his eyebrow which he raises in question. When there’s no response Clint finally cracks his eyes open.

 

Phil looks weary; tired and distant and distracted. He’s looking at Clint but not really seeing him and won’t meet his eyes. Clint makes a quiet inquisitive sound and presses the knuckles of his hand, still wrapped up in Phil’s shirt, against the other man’s stomach. Phil takes in a halting breath and looks down, his jaw clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to figure out what to say. It’s funny that Agent Coulson never has trouble with finding his words, but Phil struggles. It’s one of the genuine pieces of Phil that he gets to keep just for himself, a part that Clint fell in love with (their recent difficulties not withstanding).

 

Unclenching his fist Clint instead finds where the bottom of Phil’s shirt has pulled up, allowing his fingers to play slowly along the short expanse of Phil’s stomach they can reach. He shifts his other arm under the pillow cradling his head so he can see Phil better, trying not to let the silence and warmth pull him back to sleep.

 

“I’m not sure I ever really convinced myself I deserved you,” Phil begins slowly. He presses a finger against Clint’s lips when he starts to protest, and Clint acquiesces for the moment, deciding to just be glad Phil’s started to talk.

 

“Your first year at SHIELD you were young and angry and alone, and when you first started showing interest in me, I thought you were just settling for the first person to be kind to you. Over the years your interest didn’t wane and so I let myself fall for you, too.” He’s still not looking at Clint, and he’s absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along the bend of Clint’s elbow between them.

 

“I figured it didn’t really matter if you were settling for me as long as I made you happy, took care of you and loved you. We even did pretty well there for a while.” Phil pauses with a sigh, searching for words. “But then I saw you with Laura and the kids, saw how happy you all were, and I realized how selfish I’d been.”

 

“Is that why you left me there?” It comes out more bitter than Clint intended, but he doesn’t try to temper it.

 

Phil ducks his head further before responding in the affirmative. “Only part of it - I thought you’d finally found the family you’ve always wanted, always deserved to have. I didn’t want to remind you of the hells you’ve been through. I thought you deserved the safety of anonymity.”

 

He blows out a long breath and shakes his head slightly.

 

“But I was also afraid. I was afraid you would remember me and be disappointed, that you’d realize you had settled and would leave anyway. I think Andrew was right – I was protecting myself as much as I was trying to protect you.”

 

Phil falls silent and Clint nods slowly. He’s always known about Phil’s predisposition towards self-sacrifice, and while he’s suspected some of the motivations behind that tendency it’s the first time Phil’s admitted it out loud. Now there are other questions he needs answered.

 

“Last night you asked me to stay. Was that just last night?”

 

“No, Clint, not just for last night.” He pauses, swallowing roughly. “I wished countless times that you’d never gone on that mission. When I found you, I’d wished I could have found you sooner, before you fell in love with another family.”

 

He shushes Clint’s protests again before continuing. “I realize now that those wishes were all made in the hope of having everything go back to ‘normal’, before you left, not considering your own experiences, your own… growth. And instead of wishing I need to put in the time, the work to make things as close to they were before as we can. If that’s what you want?”

 

Phil’s finally looking at Clint, face placid but gaze hopeful and imploring and afraid.

 

“We’re endgame, Phil.” He emphasizes his words with a gentle tug on Phil’s shirt, then smiles when Phil suddenly sags in relief. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

 

Phil ducks his head to hide a smile, and Clint finds it so endearing that he can’t help but wrap his arms around Phil and pull him close. They cling to each other for long moments before settling into an easy hold and Clint can’t help but think this is the homecoming he’d wanted weeks ago. He wishes he could just enjoy the moment, but there’s more they need to discuss.

 

“Phil?” There’s a muffled sound of inquiry from where Phil’s tucked against Clint’s chest, relaxed and warm. He hates to broach this subject but he’s tired of having misunderstandings between them.

 

“It doesn’t change anything between us, I mean it when I say I’m here to stay. But… I’m not sorry you didn’t find me sooner. I’m glad I met Laura and Lila and Cooper, glad I was able to learn from them and help them, just like they helped me.” He pauses and blows out a breath, surprised to find Phil still undisturbed against him. He’s sure it won’t last, and he might as well get this out now.

 

“I’m sorry it went as far as it did, between Laura and me. I don’t know if you can forgive me for my… transgressions, but I hope you believe me when I say I have no intention of repeating them.”

 

Phil shrugs against him, seemingly unperturbed. “You were happy with them.” It’s not a question, but it doesn’t sound like an accusation either.

 

“I was happy with you, too.”

 

“I know.” Phil’s pulled away and looking at him now, calm and sure like he hasn’t been in weeks. “It bothered me, at first. Every time I thought about being close to you, touching you, I’d see you with her. When she called… well, obviously I didn’t take it well. But now I realize that what you shared with her doesn’t negate what we had, or what we could reclaim.”

 

Clint remains in stunned silence for a moment before breaking from it by taking a deep breath. “I know you said before that you’re not willing to share, and I want it to be clear that I have no intention of continuing to pursue an… intimate relationship with Laura. And if it’s going to be a deal breaker for you, I will walk away, say my goodbyes and go. But…”

 

“But you don’t want to.” It’s still not a question, and Phil’s still seemingly unbothered.

 

“I think you’d like them, Phil, if you hung out with them just a little.”

 

“I bet you’re right.” Phil says as he tilts his head to study Clint with an easy smile on his face.  “It’s going to be hard to stay in touch. Our jobs, our lives – those haven’t changed. But I know they mean a lot to you and I think we should try.”

 

“Yeah?” Clint’s trying to suppress his smile, afraid to upset Phil with his relief and delight. But Phil just grins back, so he adds, “I think they’ll like you, too.”

 

Phil’s smile turns brittle now, and Clint’s afraid he’s pushed too hard. He tries not to let fear take over while Phil decides what to say.

 

“I know I haven’t made a good show of it recently, but I’d like to work on us for a while. Before we figure out what the rest of it’s going to look like.” 

 

Clint’s torn between disappointment and glee – hearing Phil say he wants to rebuild their relationship blunted by the thought of putting off Laura and the kids indefinitely. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, hopes Phil can’t see that it’s a struggle to keep the smile on his face.

 

“Thanksgiving’s in a couple weeks, so I was thinking we could do that together, like we used to. You, me, and Natasha. But maybe we could do Christmas in Wyoming? I hear Lila has a pageant she’s saving you a ticket for.”

 

Clint lets the smile take over his face, letting Phil see how very ok with that plan he is. He takes Phil’s hand in his, lifting it to his lips for a gentle kiss without breaking eye contact. “I’d like that.”

 

***

 

“You’re late.” Clint says with a teasing smile, opening the door to reveal Natasha on the doorstep holding a store-bought pumpkin pie. Natasha huffs at him.

 

“I’m right on time – I can’t stand to watch you two make heart eyes at each other anymore. It’s worse than the pining.”

 

Clint ducks his head with a sheepish grin. She’s not wrong. The last few weeks haven’t been easy – they’ve both swung hot and cold, intermittently angry at the situation then just happy to be together, swinging between crippling doubt and conviction - but amazing none the less. Phil’s been true to his word, working through his worries and trying to regain what they’d lost. He’s been leaving work more-or-less on time, staying home on the weekends, and even taken his name off the emergency call list.

 

When Phil’s home he doesn’t hide in his room anymore. He spends the time with Clint; cooking, watching TV, playing cards, reading. They sit closer on the couch and, for the last week or so, they’ve gone to sleep in the same bed rather than just slipping into each other’s rooms in the dead of night after bad dreams. While they were never particularly good at physical displays of affection outside of the bedroom in the past, Phil’s indulged him with hugs and kisses and cuddling. By mutual unspoken agreement they’ve been holding back on sex until they’re on more solid ground, but last night they’d spent hours kissing and touching, so Clint doesn’t think it will be much longer. The thought of being with his husband again in that way after all this time makes his heart skip in his chest.

 

Natasha seems to sense where his thoughts have drifted because she rolls her eyes and smacks him on the shoulder before she pushes past him into the house. Closing and locking the door he follows her into the dining room, which they rarely use except for holidays and guests. He tries not to think about how the last time this room was used was probably two years ago, the Thanksgiving before his disappearance.

 

Phil’s just setting bowls of potatoes and green beans on the table, and he looks up when they enter. He smiles and hugs Natasha in welcome, thanking her for the pie.

 

Working together they get the turkey sliced and everything on the table, finding their seats a few minutes later.

 

As is tradition, Phil says grace but it’s shorter than usual – there’s too much to be thankful for right now and almost all of it will cause tears, so he settles with a simple, “Thankful we could all be here together.”

 

The start of dinner is quiet while they each let that sink in, and Clint wraps his foot around Phil’s leg under the table, not sure if his intent is to give or take silent support.

 

They each have seconds and, for Clint, thirds.  Natasha teases him that he’ll never pass his recertification physical set for early January, to which he responds by filling his mouth with mashed potatoes before giving her a toothy, potato-ey grin.

 

With the three of them clean up’s quick. The leftovers are packaged including a couple containers for Natasha to take home, and the dishwasher’s filled and started. Phil finishes up the last of the cookware that can’t be put in the dishwasher while Clint and Natasha cut generous slices of pie for them all.

 

Per tradition they settle in the living room to watch the first of the Christmas movies playing on TV.  Clint looks around as the movie starts, heart swelling in his chest until it feels like he can’t breathe. To think he almost lost this… It’s a good while before he can start to eat, before he can swallow around the lump in his throat.

 

Halfway through the movie Clint’s slouched down on the couch leaning against Phil who has his arm around him, holding him close. Phil’s fingers are tracing random patterns into Clint’s sweater covered upper arm, and Clint’s hand is doing the same where it’s resting on Phil’s thigh.

 

“Get a room already.” Nat’s voice is loud in the otherwise quiet room, and if Clint wasn’t so comfortable, he might have startled. She rolls her eyes and stands, leaving her plate on the coffee table before coming around behind the couch. She kisses each of them on the cheek, thanks them for dinner, and let’s herself out before Clint can think of anything to say.

 

He’s still staring down the now empty hallway when Phil takes a deep breath, causing Clint’s head to lift as well.  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a pretty good suggestion…”

 

His voice trails off in uncertainty. It takes Clint a moment to make the connection but when he does, he sits up abruptly, looking Phil in the eye. “Yeah?”

 

Phil responds by leaning forward, placing a hand on Clint’s cheek to guide him into the kiss. When they break away Phil prods Clint into standing and follows, taking Clint by the hand to lead him towards the stairs.

 

There are no more words between them. All the things they can’t say they share in touches and the joining of two bodies.

 

Laying together afterward and held tightly in Phil’s arms, Clint has one last thought before drifting off to sleep – it’s good to be home.

 

***

 

The first thing Clint notices when he walks into Phil’s office is an unexpected tenseness. Phil’s frowning into the phone and raises a finger indicating Clint should wait, so he pulls up the chair in front of Phil’s desk and tries not to worry.

 

He was coming to confirm their plans for next week – it’s a little over a week before Christmas and they’re planning to fly out on the 22nd, the day before Lila’s pageant. The plane tickets are already paid for and most of the gifts are waiting to be wrapped at home. They’ve been trying to decide if they should stay at the Miller’s Inn or get a room in a bigger town 30 minutes away in order to allow for some distance if they need it. But after speaking with Laura, Clint’s reassured that they can all stay civil throughout this, at least enough to sleep in the same town.

 

Though Clint still hasn’t told Laura that he’s married to Phil, so there is that surprise waiting. It’s another thing they are supposed to discuss today – Clint doesn’t have his full clearance back and won’t until after his assessments in January, which means he can’t get clearance for Laura and the kids to know who he really is, or who Phil is to him. Hell, their marriage is listed as classified within SHIELD, so even letting Laura know his real name or that he’s married is technically not allowed.

 

At least Phil had seemed genuinely remorseful when he’d reminded Clint of that state of affairs.

 

The silence breaks when Phil gives a curt nod and says, “yes, sir,” into the phone. He hangs up but leaves his hand resting over the cradle, head hanging.

 

Not good news, then.

 

“Clint,” Phil starts and looks up, but then he pauses again. Standing abruptly, he comes around the desk and shuts his office door, giving them some privacy. He uses that privacy to wrap his arms around Clint and press a kiss to his lips before straightening and leaning back against his desk, arms crossed.

 

“Blake’s team has missed three check-ins. Fury wants Natasha and I on the ground.” Phil’s body language says everything he doesn’t with words – a high risk mission made even worse by the lack of intel. It’s one of the most dangerous circumstances because there’s no telling where the first team went wrong, if they were made by their target or if there were other players involved. It takes planning, adaptability, skill, and time to address the situation safely and maximize the chances of bringing agents home alive. 

 

It’s no wonder Fury called in Strike Team Delta… well, the part of the team cleared for missions at least. Clint’s not sure if the bitterness rising in the back of his throat is fear or disappointment.

 

“When do you leave?” Clint’s trying to keep calm, trying to think about the practicalities and not think about how two of the people he cares about most are about to leave on a perilous mission.

 

“Quinjet’s being prepped now.” Phil uncrosses his arms and braces his hands against the desk. “Clint, I’m sorry. I don’t know how long this will take. I don’t know if we’ll be back in time, but I want you to go without me if we aren’t back.”

 

Clint sits back heavily. He had forgotten all about Christmas as soon as Phil said they were going on this mission, too focused on the danger Phil and Natasha are heading towards to worry about their trip. “Don’t worry about that.”

 

“I just need you to know it’s ok with me. That I don’t…” He’s interrupted by a knocking on the door, followed by a muffled voice. 

 

“Agent Coulson? We’re ready for you in conference room B.”

 

“I’ll meet you there.” Phil calls before turning back to look at him. “I’m sorry, Clint.”

 

It’s clear Phil wants to stay and comfort him in some way, but they’re both aware of the lives at stake. Clint stands and pulls Phil into a fierce hug which is returned with equal intensity. “Come home safe.”

 

They share a few more precious moments before Phil pulls away, giving Clint another brief kiss before gathering up his things and pulling his go-bag from the cabinet behind his desk. He pauses with his hand on the door handle to look back at Clint.

 

“Take care of yourself, take care of Nat,” Clint says, and Phil nods sharply. Then he’s gone, leaving Clint alone again.

 

He slaps his hands down on the top of Phil’s desk in heartbreaking frustration. He should be going with them, but he’s not cleared yet. His test is a few weeks away, which he’d initially been thankful for but in the meantime, he’s been able to make vast gains. He’s less than a minute off his normal time for the five-mile run, and even if he’s a bit sore, he’s also back to his full shooting practices on the range. And his accuracy is perfect as usual. 

 

He straightens abruptly when realization hits - the only thing holding him back is a piece of paper. He feels ready mentally, and physically he’s still one of the most capable agents available. And none of that matches his aim or his investment in keeping this team safe. Keeping Phil and Natasha safe.

 

He’s out the door a minute later, mind made up. The first stop is his locker for his go-bag, then the armory for his body armor, tactical bow and quivers. He makes sure to choose a wide selection of arrows, from trackers to explosives. Without knowing more about the mission parameters, he stuffs both heat and cold gear into his bag, figuring he can adapt from there as needed.

 

Stepping onto the flight deck it’s easy to find the team preparing for take-off, especially when he can see Natasha adjusting her Widow Bites a short distance from the lowered ramp of a Quinjet. She raises an eyebrow when he stops in front of her, keen eyes taking in the bow case and the bags hanging off his shoulder.  

 

“Agent Barton?” Clint stands a bit taller and straighter before he turns to face Phil. “You aren’t cleared for missions.”

“I’m not staying behind. I’m ready for this.”

 

What follows is a short but intense wordless conversation between them, each trying to convince the other to cede. The battle’s disrupted when Director Fury himself wanders closer, tails of his leather duster whipping around his legs in the wind.

 

“Why the hell aren’t you three in the air?”

 

Phil turns to Fury clearly with the intent to protest, but Fury beats him to it. “Don’t give me that look, Cheese. You know the reinstatement process is just a formality at this point.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Clint’s a little surprised, but then Phil turns to him and he can see the relief written all over his face. Maybe Phil was as unhappy about leaving Clint behind as he was to be left behind. 

 

“Agent Barton, I’ll brief you on the flight.” He walks away, going to round up the agents milling about and give last minute commands.

 

Clint’s shoulders drop in relief. Looking up he finds Natasha regarding him with a small smile dancing around her lips.  “It’s about time.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, there's Phil and Clint on better terms. Now to wrap up with Laura and the kids!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some family fluff!
> 
> Of note, if you notice some SPaG errors in this or the last couple chapters, it's because I made a lot of changes after getting these back from my Betas. All errors are my mistakes!

Chapter 31

Clint leans back against the side of the Quinjet with a groan. Beside him Natasha’s pretending to sleep, and Phil’s up front by the pilots tapping away on his tablet. The sight of his bad-ass husband brings a faint smile to his face. Clint closes his eyes to remember the ease with which Strike Team Delta reformed and got the job done this past week. It felt good to be back in the field – it’s a feeling no mind machine or memory could come close to mimicking. 

It had taken five days before they’d found any useful intel, most of which Clint spent watching Natasha’s back from up high while she infiltrated the businesses and store houses of the group in question. From there the mission had rapidly dissolved into a frantic series of increasingly bizarre encounters which had eventually revealed a rival group had identified the SHIELD team before they could infiltrate their original target. Using the information as a bargaining chip the two groups had joined forces and overtaken the SHIELD team. 

The rescue had quickly gotten messy requiring more ground fighting than was Clint’s preference, but in the end all five members of the SHIELD team were recovered with minimal injuries. As a bonus SHIELD had twice as many bad guys in custody, and a warehouse full of drugs and weapons off the black market. 

His thoughts are brought back to the present when the PA system crackles to life. The pilot gives a twenty-minute ETA and there’s a general shuffle around him as the other agents start gathering their gear. Clint’s in no rush though, and he keeps his eyes closed.

They’d rescued the team yesterday afternoon, and Phil has been mired in clean up since then. While he and Natasha managed a few hours, Clint’s pretty sure Phil didn’t sleep the night before - he’d spent the hours on his tablet and making calls to headquarters, coordinating evacuation and transport for the teams and the prisoners. 

But no matter how hard Phil’s been working, they still couldn’t leave until the wee hours this morning when a replacement team arrived to finish clean up. They’d immediately boarded a Quinjet for the westward trip home but none of that can change the fact that it’s December 23rd. They’ve already missed their flight out of New York and trying to rearrange travel this time of year is a nightmare Clint’s not willing to face.

Opening his eyes just a hair he catches sight of Phil. He’s still sitting up front near the pilots, backed bowed and head bent as he talks into his phone while conferring with his tablet. There are dark, puffy circles under his eyes and his thinning hair is standing up in a fluffy halo. 

All of Clint’s protective instincts are firing. With Phil already looking so exhausted, he really just wants to tuck him into bed. That leads to Clint coming up with ways he can convince Phil they shouldn’t leave their bed until Christmas which brings another smile to his face, and a smack in the arm from Natasha. His grin grows at her mock disapproval.

Clint doesn’t bother to open his eyes again until the jet starts to descend. When he does it’s with a heavy sigh – he’s been trying to decide what to say to Laura. Already he’s tired of lying to her directly or by omission, but there’s no good way to explain the late notice cancellation without breaking clearance. He’s sure Laura will understand but Lila’s going to be devastated no matter what.

The other agents are already disembarking by the time he finds the motivation to stand. After grabbing his gear, he waits for Phil to join him, even though he’s still on the phone. It sounds like he’s wrapping up an informal debriefing to Fury and, though it’s atypical for Phil to defer a formal sit-down meeting, Clint wonders if he might be able to sneak Phil away sooner than he’d anticipated.

When they step off the ramp it’s to a deep chill in the air and the feel of snow. The sun’s still low in the east, trying valiantly to shine through the grey clouds crowding the sky. Clint takes a deep breath in to savor before continuing towards the door that leads into headquarters, walking slow to let Phil catch up.

He’s surprised when Phil lays a hand on his elbow and stops him, raising a finger for Clint to wait while listening to whoever is on the other end of the phone. He decides to set down his gear in favor of crossing his arms over his chest – he’s starting to wish he’d bothered to put his jacket on. 

“Yes sir, will do. Thanks, Marcus.” Phil finally hangs up the phone and slides it into his pocket. Clint’s about to ask why they’re standing outside in the middle on winter when Phil looks up abruptly. Following Phil’s gaze, he finds Jasper approaching them, shoulders weighed down by three duffle bags. 

“Jesus, Barton, put on a coat.” Clint gives Jasper a cheeky grin at the man’s obvious discomfort seeing his bare arms, and absolutely refuses to give into the shivering. 

Jasper holds the bags out to Phil and Clint. “Alright, debt repaid. There’s a quinjet on runway 6 waiting for you.” He holds his hand out for Phil to shake. “Have a Merry Christmas, and don’t forget you promised to be back in time to cover New Year’s.”

Jasper picks up the bow case and bags Clint had set down, then turns and walks away. Clint’s still staring between the strap of the bag in his hand and Jasper’s form retreating with his weapons when Phil takes the other two bags and starts walking toward the designated runway. 

“Phil?” He asks, confused but he hurries after his husband. Initially he thought maybe they were being sent on another mission, but that wouldn’t make sense without his bow. 

“Jasper will have Ace put them away safe, don’t worry.” Clint wonders if Phil’s being obtuse on purpose, but one glance at the man shows just how tired he is. When Phil gets this exhausted, he sometimes forgets that not everyone knows the game plan as well as he does.

Still, Clint follows Phil to the waiting Quinjet and walks up the ramp beside him. Phil stores the bags he’s carrying in the side cargo hold and then goes to meet the team leader, leaving Clint at the top of the closing ramp still wondering what’s going on.

“Agent Jansen, I appreciate you waiting for us.” 

Jansen is a stout figure with a kind face, but the hand shaking Phil’s is strong and thickened with calluses. “Closest we can get you is Warren, that good enough?”

“Perfect. I’ve got a car waiting for us once we land.” Jansen gives a nod and turns away, signaling the pilots to take off. 

Clint can’t take his eyes off Phil. “Warren?”

Phil nods, but waits to talk until after he’s directed them both into seats towards the back. “I couldn’t requisition a Quinjet just to get us to Wyoming, and this was the closest flight plan. This team’s heading to California but will drop us off on the way. It’s about a five-hour drive from the base; if we make good time, we should be in time for the show.”

“Show?” 

Phil gives him an unimpressed look, like Clint is being purposefully difficult. “Lila’s pageant? We missed our flight, and this is the best I could do.”

When realization hits it takes every ounce of will-power he has to stop from breaking their no PDA at work rule. 

“So the bags?”

“I had Jasper grab the bags I’d already started packing from home, as well as the gifts we bought.” Phil tilts his heads as if just realizing some oversight. “I was so caught up in the wrap up from the mission... You’re ok with this, right?”

Ok with Phil taking it upon himself to save Christmas, even when he must be in some way dreading the uncertainty of the coming days? Ok with the fact that Phil didn’t take the first and very legitimate excuse to cancel this trip, no matter how much Clint wanted to go? Ok with having the best husband in the world?

Clint doesn’t say any of that, of course, but he does give Phil a blinding smile and knocks their shoulders together. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

***

Phil’s practically dead on his feet by the time they land. Clint loads their bags into the back of the waiting sedan and stops Phil before he can get into the passenger’s seat. The quinjet’s lifting into the air and there’s no one around to see, so he allows himself to pull Phil into a quick hug, squeezing tightly for just a moment. 

Phil barely keeps himself upright as Clint pulls away and strips him of his suit jacket, removes his tie, and unbuttons the top of his now rumpled dress shirt. He doesn’t protest when Clint directs him into the passenger’s seat, just catches Clint’s wrist briefly before buckling his belt and reclining his seat back, giving in to the inevitable. 

Phil’s asleep before Clint even manages to get behind the wheel and pull up directions on his phone. Glancing right there’s a weird stuttering sensation in his chest when he catches sight of Phil sleeping next to him. He spends a few brief seconds watching Phil, listening to his soft snores and rememorizing the lines of his face. It’s amazing how he can still be overcome by this man, even at something so simple. 

Tearing his eyes away he buckles his own belt and starts the car, heading north. 

***

“Jimmy!” Clint looks up just in time to catch the blonde jumping into his arms. She’s still in her dress from the pageant and the fabric is soft against his hands when he hugs her close. 

“Peanut! You did amazing!” He smiles at Laura and Cooper making their way through the crowd toward them, and his eyes sting with happiness. “So amazing…”

Cooper reaches them first, wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist and Laura follows until Clint’s nearly fully enveloped by the small family. The noise in the hall seems to fade while he holds them close, but there’s something missing. Someone missing. 

Pulling back, he grins at them, still holding Lila but he takes a step away so he’s standing next to Phil. Laura looks surprised for a moment before her mouth turns up in a knowing smile. 

“Phil, it’s great to see you again!” Phil looks startled when Laura wraps him in a fiercely tight hug, but he shakes off the shock quickly and brings his arms up. The dampness in Clint’s eyes grows and he blinks rapidly to hold back the evidence of his happiness. 

“Did you see me?” Lila brings the attention back to herself, diffusing the moment before Clint manages to embarrass himself. 

“See you? Of course, I saw you! You did so well! I’m so proud of you!” The walk out is filled with the little girl’s chatter as she relives her favorite parts of the show, even Cooper sharing in his sister’s excitement. With his attention being monopolized by Lila, Clint’s indescribably happy to note Laura engaging Phil in conversation. 

They reach Laura’s car first and Clint helps buckle Lila into her car seat. When he stands up, he overhears Laura asking Phil, “We’ll meet you two back at the house, then?”

Phil glances at Clint, and while it’s clear Laura can’t tell there’s anything wrong Clint can see the subtle signs of panic written on the man’s features. 

“Actually, we were going to head to the Miller’s Inn,” Clint says. He shouldn’t be surprised when Laura waves him off, but he is – he’s impressed with how well she’s handling Phil’s role in his life, at least what she suspects of it. Neither of them are wearing their rings, not having been able to stop by Phil’s office for them.

“Nonsense.” Laura closes the door Cooper just slid through and opens her own. “Cooper’s on the couch and you have his room. It’s all set up. See you there!” Then she’s slipping into the car before they can protest, waving at them through the lightly fogged windows.

Clint stands next to Phil to watch the car pull away. There’s a gentle scoff from beside him and Phil’s elbow knocks into his. “You know, she reminds me of someone I know.”

Laughter bubbles up, starting as a chuckle and growing until he’s gasping out gusts of fogged air. The relief he feels is immense – there’s so many ways this meeting could have gone wrong, still could go wrong, and yet right now, in this moment, everything’s perfect. Right down to Phil’s teasing.

It’s long moments later before he’s able to pull himself together. Standing straight he finds Phil smiling a self-satisfied smirk and that overwhelmed feeling comes back, weakening his knees and swelling in his chest so that he can hardly breath. 

Clint pulls Phil into a tight hug. “I love you, Phil Coulson.” He shifts closer, closing the miniscule gap between them. “So damn much.”

***

Despite Laura’s insistence Clint does discuss it with Phil, and in the end, they decide it may just be easier to head to the house then try to get a room now, seeing as they never managed to book a place due to the mission. It takes Phil reassuring him three or four times before he relents and trusts that Phil isn’t just trying to make him happy but is honestly comfortable staying with the family. 

Traffic from an elementary school Christmas pageant is unexpectedly ruthless, and they wait until most of the lot empties before they can pull out. The drive is short but it’s still getting late when they make it to the house. Max’s barking echoes out to greet them while they unload the car, and by the time they’re walking up the steps Cooper’s opening the front door to them, holding the dog back by the collar. 

They squeeze past Cooper and drop their bags before Clint kneels to greet the enthusiastic dog. Phil even lets Max lean against his suit pants without protest. 

“Lila fell asleep in the car, mom’s putting her to bed.” Cooper says before he grabs one of the bags to take down the hallway, leaving them with Max.

There’s the general kerfuffle of getting ready for bed compounded by the arrival of guests, but they endure tripping over each other with general good will and camaraderie. By the time Clint’s shuffling out of the bathroom he’s exhausted and looking forward to bed, so much so that he almost walks right into Laura who was coming the opposite way down the hall.

An uncomfortable silence settles between them, and Clint shifts his weight. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you abo…”

“Oh, don’t start that again.” She takes a step closer, raising a hand to rest against his shoulder. “It’s good to see you; the rest can wait until tomorrow.”

She hesitates, uncertainty clear on her face before she finally just gives his shoulder an awkward pat and shuffles to the side. 

Her uncertainty has fed his own and suddenly the tiny hallway seems even smaller with just the two of them in it, trying to side step each other without touching. Eventually they manage to shuffle around with many starts and stops. Laura gives him a chagrined smile before heading the short distance to her room, closing the door with a soft, “Good night.”

Blowing out a breath Clint falls back against the wall, letting his head thump a couple times for good measure. 

“Well, that was painful.”

Clint looks up to find Phil leaning against the doorway to their room, arms crossed and a teasing grin on his lips. He pushes off the wall once Clint sees him, heading into the room and leaving the door open behind him.

Clint curses under his breath before he follows Phil into the bedroom. Phil’s climbing into the full-sized bed; it will be a bit tight with the two of them, but Clint’s kind of looking forward to an excuse to hold Phil without him having to ask for it. 

After setting his towel and toiletry case on the desk Clint starts digging through his bag. There’s a lot more in his duffle than he’d managed to pack before they left, and in addition to plenty of clothes for the next few days he finds the new sets of pajamas for both him and Phil, his favorite sweater, and even snow gear. The fake bottom to the bag remains intact and he decides now isn’t the time to check the weapon hidden underneath again – he’d done it on the quinjet already. Glancing sideways he finds the third bag has been shoved under the bed and remains unopened - he’ll have to ask Laura tomorrow about wrapping paper. 

“You’re not subtle. Stop stalling.”

“Just checking my gear, boss.” Pushing everything back into place he zips the top closed and pushes it under the bed with the others. He still manages to avoid looking at Phil when he slides under the sheets, settling on his back with Phil propped up on an elbow beside him. 

“Clint, I’m not upset.” Phil reaches out and rests his hand on Clint’s chest, right over his heart. 

Clint sighs and gives an unaffected shrug which isn’t even close to being believable. “You should be.” Even as he says the words, he realizes how very true they are. He feels like a total ass bringing his husband here, rubbing his indiscretions in Phil’s face like this. And even more so because he’s glad they’re here, so happy to finally see Laura and Lila and Cooper again. 

“Maybe, but I’m not. Let’s focus on that, shall we?” 

Another shrug.

“Clint,” Phil takes the hand off his chest and uses it to turn Clint’s face just enough to have to look at him. “I’m not upset. But I am concerned by what I just saw. I trust you and Laura; you don’t have to dance around each other this week.”

Those sessions with Dr. Garner are really paying off, and there’s open honesty in Phil’s gaze. The only response Clint can manage at the moment is a brief nod, and Phil sighs.

“Just don’t treat her like a stranger – she didn’t do anything wrong and neither did you.” He let’s go and shifts down, settling on his back beside Clint. Silence stretches between them, but Clint’s mind is still racing with self recrimination. Phil’s said the same before, that there isn’t fault in this situation except with AIM, but Clint’s still finding it hard to accept.

By the time he let’s Phil’s words sink in the man’s starting to snore lightly beside him, scrunched as he is between Clint and the wall. A fond smile finds its way to his face as he prods at Phil, waking him enough to get him to turn up on his side facing the wall. Sliding the short distance between them he wraps an arm around Phil’s waist and pulls his back to rest against him.

“I’ll never understand what I did to deserve you.” Clint whispers, and he’s surprised when Phil manages a sleepy reply. 

“Love you.” Phil yawns, and between that and his exhaustion his next words are slurred. “That’s all that matters.”

Phil’s dead asleep before Clint can think of anything to say.

***

When Phil wakes up it’s still mostly dark, with just enough gray light filling the room to see. His back is sweaty where Clint’s pressed against him, but he has no desire to leave the warm cocoon he’s enclosed in. 

However, his bladder has other ideas, giving another uncomfortable spasm to urge him to make a faster escape. Reluctantly he starts by lifting Clint’s arm from around his waist, straightening it and resting it between their bodies. But when he tries to kick the blankets down there’s a disgruntled sound from behind him and Clint’s arm comes to wrap around him again, pulling close. 

“Don’ go.” 

“I have to pee, I’ll be back.”

“Stay.” Clint accompanies his words with a tightening of his arm and a kiss to the back of Phil’s neck, but then lets go. “Hurry back.” 

Phil pulls his legs out and maneuvers down the bed, sliding his pillow into Clint’s arms where he proceeds to wrap around it like a sleepy octopus. A fond smile crosses Phil’s face and he pauses to watch for just a few seconds before his bladder demands his attention once more. 

The trip to the bathroom turns into more of an adventure than anticipated. First, he tripped over Max where he was apparently sleeping pressed against their bedroom door. Phil managed to shut the door quickly, so the dog’s startled yelp and subsequent huff didn’t wake Clint again, and then soothed the animal with a few quick pats to the head. 

He’d managed to relieve himself efficiently after that but when leaving the bathroom, he found Max by the front door, clearly expressing his need to go outside. With the house silent around them Phil decided that a short walk wouldn’t be so bad, so he grabbed his coat and slipped on his shoes. 

Unfortunately, he’d failed to consider just how frigid the wind can be, and he curses the cold while he waits for Max to finish his business. The wind tears through his thin sleep pants and whips around his bare ankles, and he’s pretty sure his nose headed south for the winter, because it’s so numb it’s difficult to believe it’s still intact. 

Max takes his time sniffing each pole and browned leaf and crack in the side walk before finally deciding to try emptying his bladder against a neighbors Christmas display. Phil just manages to stop him, but then it’s another ten minutes before the dog decides the tree three houses down suits him just fine. 

From there it’s easy enough to get Max home but when they step in it’s clear they’re no longer the only ones awake. The front hall smells of freshly brewing coffee and the TV’s on, the sound of cartoons just barely drifting out of the living room. After sliding off his shoes and jacket Phil heads to the kitchen still trying to rub some feeling back into his fingers. 

Max heads straight to his filled food dish but Phil pauses just inside. Laura’s standing at the counter and when she looks up, she seems surprised to see Phil, but recovers quickly. 

“Do you drink coffee?” She asks with a smile. “We also have orange juice and hot chocolate if you’d prefer.”

Phil smiles back, “I do drink coffee, thank you.” 

Laura nods and opens the cupboard in front of her to get down another mug, filling it before handing it to Phil and motioning towards the milk and sugar on the counter. 

He expected her to retreat to the living room but instead she stays, leaning one hip against the counter and cradling her coffee cup while she watches him. Once he has his own drink ready, he mirrors her position, calmly looking her back in the eye and letting her decide where this is going to go. 

“Thanks for taking Max out.”

“My pleasure.”

She snorts a laugh at him. “Doubtful. Can you even feel your nose yet?”

He laughs with her but doesn’t deny it. He’s saved from coming up with something to say when Lila trudges into the room. She’s dragging a soft looking blanket and her hair’s a fluffy halo around her head, which she presses into Laura’s hip. She says something Phil can’t make out with the way it’s muffled but apparently Laura can interpret it, because she pets her daughter’s hair twice before reaching back up into the cupboard to grab two cups. 

When Laura breaks away to reach into the fridge, Lila hugs the blanket close and stares at him from over the fuzzy edge she has pressed under her nose. She doesn’t say anything while watching him; Phil just smiles back and tries to be as non-threatening as possible.

He’s considering saying something to stop the staring contest between them when Laura hands her a half full cup of orange juice, which Lila takes and turns to head back to the living room. He watches her go which is why he doesn’t notice until a few moments later that Laura’s holding the second glass of juice out towards him. 

“For Jimmy.” She looks somewhat embarrassed, like she filled the glass out of habit and is now worried she’s overstepped when Phil’s clearly ‘someone’ to the man sleeping in the other room. Phil swallows hard against the image of Laura bringing a sleepy Clint early morning beverages.

“He’ll appreciate it, I’m sure.” He tries to make his smile reassuring but can’t quite make himself meet her eyes. “I’ll go see if he’s awake yet; I know he promised pancakes this morning.”

He’d like to be able to reassure her more but between his own uncertainty and the fact she still doesn’t actually know anything about them, he decides now isn’t the time. He knows Clint plans to find some time to try to explain as best he can later today, and to get her input on how to explain everything to the kids.

With that on his mind he leaves the kitchen; he has an early Christmas gift to give to Clint. 

***

Clint’s first aware of the scent of coffee, then he recognizes the hand rubbing circles on his shoulder. “Phil,” he says and reaches up to grab Phil’s hand, giving it a tug to express his desire to have his husband back in bed. He must surprise Phil because the other man stumbles forward, draped over him and pushing his other hand into the mattress to stop from falling the rest of the way.

From there though Phil manages to free himself from Clint’s grasp before he can get more leverage to try again and pulls away completely. 

“Imp.” Phil’s trying to go for disapproving, but it comes out far too fond for that, and Clint smiles widely. He turns onto his back, peering up at Phil from one cracked eyelid. 

“Time to get up.” Phil’s holding out a glass of orange juice, and Clint doesn’t need much more encouragement to sit up against the pillows. He takes the glass and sips, covering the taste of sleep with the sweet and tangy juice while Phil busies himself with their bags. He’s somewhat surprised to see Phil’s still in pajamas – he’s usually not very comfortable around strangers in sleep clothes.

“I have something for you.” Phil’s handing him a stack of papers in a SHIELD file folder. 

“Aw, paperwork? On Christmas?” He gripes until he notices Phil looks mildly uncomfortable and decides maybe he better see what he’s been handed.

Opening the file, he finds completed forms instead of the empty he was expecting, each signed off on by Phil and Fury. It doesn’t take long to recognize what he’s holding, and then he’s looking to Phil again. “But how…?”

“‘Clearance is just a formality.’” Phil’s face is blank and his voice deadpanned as he mimics Fury’s words, but then he breaks with a sigh and nudges Clint’s knee to make room for him on the bed. Sitting on the mattress he leaves his hand on Clint’s knee and squeezes it once.

“This gives you full clearance to tell them everything about you that you want, and about us.” He opens his other hand which Clint hadn’t realized was closed. In his palm are their matching rings, plain bands catching the light. 

“But, that’s classified, even within SHIELD.” Other than their friends, no one else at SHIELD knows they’re married to each other. It’s why they are careful to avoid PDA at work and one of the reasons they don’t wear their rings on missions. 

Phil shrugs. “I didn’t want you to have to lie to them. They’re family to you, so if you want them to know, they should. If you don’t or aren’t ready, that’s ok too. I just wanted to make sure you had the option.”

Clint can’t speak, his heart swelling in his chest so big it feels like it’s blocking his airway. So instead he grabs Phil by the collar of his t-shirt and hauls him into a kiss. “You’re amazing.”

Phil smiles and gives him another quick kiss. “Merry Christmas.” Then he moves away, standing up while Clint goes back to staring at the papers in his hands. 

“I think I’ll talk to Laura first,” he starts, talking slow as he makes the plan in his head. “See how that goes first, but if you’re ok with it I want them all to know you as my husband.”

“I’d like that.” 

Clint decides that’s enough sappy stuff for him this early in the morning; the moisture in his eyes is simply from being woken up so early, that’s all. He downs the rest of the juice and pushes off the covers. After a quick stretch they leave the room together, padding barefoot down the hall. 

Lila notices them in the doorway to the living room first and hops up with a shout. “Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes!” She jumps at Clint who catches her effortlessly, swinging her up onto his hip. 

“Pancakes, huh?” He gives her an appraising look. “You know I think I’m going to need an assistant to make pancakes for this many people. Any idea who’d be up for the job?”

“Me!” She yells and giggles, raising a hand high above her head. 

“You?!” Clint gives her a playfully surprised look. “Well, let’s see what you’re made of, short stuff. Do you remember what we need to make pancakes?”

He moves off, carrying her into the kitchen while she rattles off ingredients. Taking a last glance at Phil he finds his husband watching with an unreadable expression but gets a nod anyway. He makes a mental note to ask Phil about it later, but for now accepts that he’ll be fine while Clint goes to start breakfast.

***

“He’s really great with her.” Having been so preoccupied watching Clint with Lila, Phil barely manages not to startle when Laura speaks. His cheeks burn with embarrassment and something else he can’t identify. The thing is she’s right – Clint’s amazing with the young girl and Phil found he couldn’t take his eyes away from him. He’s carefree in a way Clint rarely is, open and playful in a way that’s so very infrequent but that Phil loves. 

“Actually, he’s great with both of them.” He finds Laura smiling understandingly at him from over the back of the couch. Cooper’s on the floor in front of her but is engrossed by the TV and not paying them any attention. 

Laura looks away briefly before meeting his eyes again and he realizes she probably does understand much better than he does right now. He briefly wonders what it must be like from her side, seeing the man she loved, perhaps still does, playing with her children. He dismisses the thought quickly, both afraid of the answer and recognizing it’s not his business either way.

“You’re welcome to come grab a seat. I’m not sure what we’re watching but I have today’s paper if you want to read.”

He thanks her and does just that, setting his coffee on the table beside the couch and choosing the front page which she already seems to have finished with. Despite his recent thoughts it’s surprisingly comfortable sitting here with her. They share the paper, reading with background noise from the cartoons on the TV and the sounds of breakfast coming together in the kitchen; the smell of frying bacon and butter quickly fills the air around them. 

It’s not long after that Clint calls out for everyone to wash their hands and get their drinks ready. If hard pressed Phil wouldn’t be able to say exactly what about the request comes as surprising; while Clint certainly isn’t unhygienic, there’s something very domestic about the whole situation that catches Phil off guard.

Shaking himself out of the thought he goes to do as asked, washing his hands in the bathroom after Cooper and then filling his coffee mug again before heading to the table. There are plates of bacon and pancakes on each end of the table and he waits nearby to figure out where his place should be. 

After a bit of a shuffle, Phil finds himself sitting next to Cooper and across from Lila, who insisted she sit beside both Laura and Clint, who’s at the head of the table. Clint appears mildly uncomfortable there, and if Phil had to guess he’d say it has something to do with the man who would be sitting there if he was still alive. 

Breakfast is loud and entertaining, with Clint doing his best to include both kids in various antics to much laughter. Even Phil gets involved in the fun with Clint’s prodding, and by the end of breakfast Cooper’s talking to him nonstop about Captain America comics. 

Once everyone has eaten their full, Laura draws attention to herself. “Lila and Cooper thought that it wouldn’t be fair to get the Christmas tree set up until you arrived. So, if you’re up to it, we thought we’d head out to Williams’ farm and cut the tree, then come back and get it decorated.” She’s hugging Lila close to her and as she speaks reaches out a hand to lay on Cooper’s forearm before adding, “We used to get the tree Christmas Eve with their dad, but they wanted you to join us this year.”

Cooper gives a shrug, pretending to be unaffected, but Clint doesn’t even bother trying to hide how he’s affected. His voice is lower and much more hoarse than usual when he confirms they would really enjoy being involved. Lila beams at him and cheers, breaking the heavy moment.

“Well then, I suppose we should get cleaned up and get a move on. Cooper, Lila, I want you to do the dishes. Jimmy, could I borrow you for a few minutes?” Even though the question is directed towards Clint, she’s looking between Phil and Clint, trying to gauge their reactions. 

Phil for his part gives a nod and smiles, “I’ll help with dish duty.” He stands and starts collecting plates, handing them to Cooper and the silverware to Lila before following them to the kitchen to start washing. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Laura leading Clint out of the dining room, but Clint has stopped and is looking back at him one more time. Phil gives a tiny smile and another nod, making a slight shooing motion with his hand before turning back to where Lila and Cooper are standing at the sink.

Phil thinks they all make more of a mess than get anything clean before eventually developing a system. Cooper helps a lot by filling in the blanks with their usual tasks and directing Phil to wash while Lila rinses and Cooper dries. It takes less time than he would have imagined but they get through the bulk of the dishes quickly. He sends Cooper and Lila to wipe down the table while he finishes the last of the pans, washing and drying them himself. But once that’s done, he doesn’t really know what to do. 

Lila’s staring up at him with wide eyes and a thoughtful look that’s too old for her age, and Cooper’s wandered back to the living room to watch TV. For someone regularly involved in saving the world he feels grossly out of his depth being stared down by a young girl. He’s beginning to feel a bit of panic the longer the moment goes on, and he starts to wonder just how long until Clint comes back.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end! This was fun, but I think I'll stick to beta'ing for a while - I'm much better at that (at least I like to think so. *shrugs*)
> 
> Much thanks to Hades Puppy and teeelsie - their hard work made this so much better, and any remaining errors or inconsistencies are my doing. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! I will work on responding to comments starting tomorrow. Thank you for all your support!

Chapter 33

 

In the end Clint suggests they go for a walk. He changes in their borrowed room then heads towards the front door, pausing for a moment to watch Phil elbows deep in sudsy water working side by side with Lila and Cooper. He reaches for his phone and takes a picture before he even really thinks about it, or the way his heart’s doing funny things in his chest.

 

When Laura joins him at the front door, he helps her with her jacket, then holds open the door to let them out into the brisk December air. They take the first block in silence, and it’s clear neither of them knows what to say. It’s not uncomfortable, necessarily, but that’s a risk the longer they go without speaking. Finally, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

 

“My name is Clint, my real name.” They keep walking, neither looking at the other.

 

“Clint.” Laura says slowly, like she’s getting the feel for it on her tongue. “It fits you better, I think.”

 

He chuckles, remembering feeling the same way when he’d first heard his name again in Phil’s office. “Yeah, it does.”

 

They continue another block, pointing at Christmas displays and saying hi to the few people they pass.

 

“And Phil?”

 

“He’s really Phil, we… work together.” If she notices the pause or clearly inadequate descriptor, she lets it go for the moment.

 

“Did you figure out what you needed to figure out?” Her tone makes him think she’s more curious about the details than her question would suggest, but that she’ll let him decide how much to say.

 

He sighs, not sure how to go about explaining everything. Eventually he nods slowly, deciding to start at the beginning and go from there. “When we first met, and I told you I’d recently had surgery? That procedure was not… consensual, and the people who performed it were, for lack of a better term, enemies. After I left, I had to have another operation to reverse something they’d done, and it helped me remember who I was before we met.”

 

Clint glances at Laura beside him. She nods slowly and brings her arms up to cross tightly in front of her chest, though whether it’s against the cold or his words he can’t be sure.

 

“When I left, I was worried I was a danger to you and the kids.” He pauses again, gathering his thoughts. “What I do, who I am? It makes me a very dangerous person to the wrong people, but I promise I would never hurt you or Lila or Cooper.”

 

“The wrong people?”

 

“Bad people. I work for SHIELD, basically an alphabet agency with a more global focus than the CIA or FBI. The good guys.”

 

She looks down, more focused on where her feet land than is strictly necessary.  “You kill people?”

 

“Only when necessary.” Clint gives her a moment to process that before going on. “If you want us to go, we will. I understand if you don’t want us around the kids.”

 

“No!” It’s said with surprising force and he’s so startled he looks up and stops walking. She gets a few feet away before noticing and stops as well, turning back to look at him. “No, I don’t want you to go. I didn’t need you to leave in the first place to trust you around me or the kids. I may not like what you do, and I’d prefer Coop and Lila to never know about that aspect of it, but you’re amazing with them.”

 

She walks back to take his hands, clasping them between her own. “Remember when I told you that I knew you’re a good man? I still believe that, and will unless you tell me I shouldn’t?”

 

“I try my best.”

 

She smiles, “Good enough for me.” She lets go but wraps her hands around his arm, pulling him into resuming their slow walk. There’s laughter and teasing in her voice when she asks, “So, who is Phil, exactly?”

 

 For the life of him Clint will deny he blushes at the question, but he does duck his head with a goofily happy smile on his face. Laura must see it though because she laughs and bumps into his side.

 

“Phil is…” He cuts himself off with a short huff, not sure how to explain all that Phil is. “He’s my boss, though really we work as a team. He’s my best friend, and I fell in love with him years ago.”

 

Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring there, leaving it on his open palm for her to see. “And seven years ago, we made it official.”

 

He’s smiling but she can’t see it, staring at the ring with a look of shock. “Does he hate me? He must hate me. Oh—“

 

This time it’s Clint’s turn to take her hands in his, stopping her panic before it can build any further. “Hey, no, don’t. Nothing is your fault; you don’t have to apologize for anything. And he definitely doesn’t hate you.”

 

She doesn’t meet his eyes and he squeezes her hands tightly. “I once told him something similar, that he should be mad at me, or hate me, or something for what happened between us. You know what he said? He said, ‘I’m too happy to be mad.’ It’s taken a few months for him to convince me that the only fault lays with those who took my memories in the first place, and that he doesn’t blame you or me.”

 

He doesn’t mention those first few weeks where he’d been convinced Phil did hate him, or at least didn’t care about him anymore – once they’d started talking, to each other and to psych, they’d both been able to move past the guilt and anger to see it was misplaced.

 

Laura looks unconvinced, but she does allow him to pull her into a hug. “And when he said he was happy it wasn’t just that I was back, but also that I had such wonderful people to take care of me when I needed help. He’s glad I found you and vice versa. While none of us may be comfortable with what happened between us, there’s nothing to be guilty for.”

 

She’s still in his embrace, not fighting him but also not relaxing either. “I know it may be hard to believe but he’s like that. Amazing. He’s the best person I know.”

 

He hears her take a short but sharp breath in, and he’s about to ask what he said wrong when suddenly she yields in his arms, shaking with laughter. She brings her hands up around his waist and hugs him back, still laughing against his chest.

 

“Laura?”

 

“You two… are…” She doesn’t finish; she’s still shaking against him, though he’s not sure if it’s amusement or something ele.

 

“Laura?”

 

“You’re…” She pauses to lift her head. Exposing red, wet eyes. “He said the same thing about you, months ago.”

 

“Why are you crying?”

 

She chuckles again and buries her face back in his t-shirt. “Because I can’t decide if this is a tragedy or a fairy tale.” He gives a weak laugh at that as well. “But I’m happy you’re happy.”

 

They stand there in the cold for a while longer, letting their tears and laughter mingle until they’re both red eyed and frozen through. Eventually they break apart to wipe the marks from their cheeks and turn for home.

 

***

 

They decide on a rough plan for talking to the kids, but everything pretty much flies out of his head when they return home to find Phil and the kids seated at the dining room table playing cards. They’re all changed out of pajamas, and Phil’s even put his glasses on, which makes Clint’s brain pretty much stutter to a stop for a minute.

 

“Do you have a four?” Phil asks Lila, and she giggles as she tells him to “Go fishing!” It’s very… domestic, and Clint’s swallows hard against a suddenly dry mouth.

 

“Alright, who’s ready to go find a Christmas tree?” Laura’s question is met with joyous cries from both Lila and Cooper, the cards getting tossed down as they rush towards the front door. Laura follows them to help get them dressed for the cold while Clint stays in place, watching Phil gather the cards and put them in the right order.

 

“You’re staring.” Of course the man can tell without even turning to look at Clint.

 

He approaches close enough to rest a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Sorry we were gone so long.”

 

“Did you know I haven’t been left alone with children since I was a child myself? I remembered that today when I got into a staring match with a kindergartener...” The words are flippant, but Clint can hear the discomfort Phil’s trying to hide. He squeezes Phil’s shoulder.

 

“You did great with them. Thank you for giving us the time.” Phil just nods, closing the card box and then pushes back his chair to stand.

 

“You know I think this will be the first time we’ve had a live tree for Christmas since we’ve been married.” Phil says, changing the subject entirely and Clint lets him.

 

“That’s because neither of us are usually around for Christmas.” He pauses, not letting Phil move past him and waiting until he looks him in the eyes, checking for himself that Phil is doing ok. Phil’s eyes are clear and bright, the discomfort from a few moments prior gone and he seems as glad to have this time as Clint is. “The bad guys do seem to have a thing for acting up around the holidays.”

 

“I think it’s their gift to you and Natasha.”

 

Clint laughs, because yeah, they tend to have a lot of fun even when they get called out on the holiday. For a moment he spares a thought to wonder how Natasha’s doing with Strike Team Delta’s vacation – she’d indicated she had some things to do, and he has a sneaking suspicion exactly who she meant by that but he’ll wait until after the holiday to tease her about it. Or not; he’s glad she won’t be alone, and hopes she finally learns more about love than the Red Room taught her.

 

“I take it things went well?” He’s drawn out of his thoughts by Phil taking his left hand, thumb rubbing gently over the band on his finger.

 

Clint feels his cheeks warm and a goofy smile come over his face. “Took it like a champ.” Checking to make sure he still hears the family getting ready in the front hall Clint turns over his hand, using the leverage to pull Phil into a hug. “So many amazing people in my life.”

 

“Jimmy, Mr. Phil, we’re ready!” Cooper calls from the door, and Clint laughs when Phil groans.

 

“God, that makes me feel old…”

 

He lets go of Phil with a laugh and they join the others, grabbing jackets and gloves for the adventure.

 

***

 

By the time they drive out of town, the temperature has risen with the sun. They take their time until Lila and Cooper find the perfect tree. Clint makes short work of cutting it down and, with Phil’s help, secures it on the sled for the walk out. They all laugh at Max, his muzzle coated in white while he chases chipmunks around the trees.

 

There had already been space cleared in the living room and so it’s quick to set up the tree in the waiting stand. After getting the family’s decorations hung Clint manages to surprise Phil with his first Christmas gift – a pair of ornaments he’d bought to replicate their favorites from home. Phil laughed and smiled like the geek he is, then enlisted Cooper’s help in finding spots for the miniature Captain America shield and clutch of purple arrows on the tree.

 

By the time the tree is complete it’s late afternoon, and Laura excuses herself to make a quick meal of sandwiches while Clint and Phil sit the kids down. Afterward Clint can’t say why he was so nervous to talk to them. They have a few pointed questions but take what limited answers Clint can supply well enough. It seems Laura had already prepared them to some extent to meet someone new in “Jimmy’s” life, and they don’t even blink when that turns out to be Phil. Clint’s extraordinarily thankful for Laura all over again after that.

 

Dinner’s quick and clean up easy, so it’s not too much later before they’re all gathering back in the living room. Laura presents the kids each with a single gift and they open them with glee – their new Christmas pajamas. Lila runs into her room, nearly taking Phil down on her way past where he’s leaning against the door into the living room. Clint takes a bewildered looking Phil by the elbow with a laugh and explains while they head to their room to change. It’s weird, explaining this family tradition when he’s never had one to share before, but Phil doesn’t even blink, just dutifully changes into the Captain America flannel set Clint had picked out for him.

 

As he changes into his own black T shirt and flannel bottoms with purple chevrons, Clint notices the third bag under the bed and curses. He pulls it out when Phil looks at him in confusion.

 

“Forgot to ask Laura about wrapping paper.” He sets the bag on the bed and turns to do just that.

 

“I had Jasper take care of it.” It’s Clint’s turn to be confused, but sure enough when he opens the bag it’s to find carefully wrapped boxes and tags written out in Maria’s precise handwriting. He let’s out a long whistle.

 

“That must have been a hell of a favor Jasper owed you…”

 

“Bogota.”

 

Clint winces. Yeah, that would just about do it.

 

When they return to the living room Lila and Cooper are curled with Max watching Mickey’s A Christmas Carol, and Laura smiles at them over the back of the couch motioning them to join. Phil goes to sit on the opposite side of the couch while Clint slides the duffel bag under the Christmas tree first, then settles on the floor to lean against Phil’s legs. Lila notices them a short time later. Clint smiles when she moves to lean against his side, and he wraps an arm around her.

 

It’s comfortable and warm and Clint’s still tired from the mission; he can’t really be blamed for falling asleep.

 

***

 

Clint wakes up to the feel of strong fingers massaging his neck, deftly working on the knot that’s seized there. He groans lowly and stays where he is to enjoy the sensation a few minutes more before opening his eyes to find the room dark except for the Christmas tree lights. Lila is still pressed against his right side, asleep and drooling on his shirt.

 

Phil shifts to lean down and whisper in his ear, “Bedtime.” Clint nods sleepily, feeling the sharp pull in his neck but it helps him wake up more. Phil slides out from behind him and comes around to Lila, wrapping the blanket she already has pulled around her even tighter before slowly, carefully, gently lifting her away from Clint and into his arms.

 

Clint stands slowly, stretching his stiff muscles and looking around before quirking an eyebrow at Phil. “Out with Max.” Phil mouths silently over Lila’s head and Clint’s surprised he managed to sleep through all of that, but he’s also thankful.

 

Because right now he’s able to take in the sight of Phil with Lila cradled protectively against his chest, pink blanket brushing over his arms and her small fist gripping his shirt in her sleep. Phil catches him staring but Clint doesn’t trust his voice to speak, so he just shrugs and motions Phil to start down the hall towards the bedrooms. 

 

Clint goes ahead to turn on the nightlight and check for Lego foot mines before turning down the sheets, letting Phil lower the sleeping girl and tuck her into place. He lays a hand against Phil’s bent lower back from where he stands beside him, looking down at Lila with a gentle smile. When Phil straightens, he wraps an arm around Clint’s waist and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his temple.

 

It’s too much for Clint. He disentangles himself from Phil and passes behind him on his way out of the room. He can hear Phil pausing to shut Lila’s bedroom door, but Clint doesn’t stop. He grabs his toiletry bag from the dresser and walks back out of their room to the bathroom, watching his feet rather than look up to see the hurt expression on Phil’s face. 

 

***

 

To Phil the sound of the bathroom door closing is like a physical punch to the chest. He’s left standing in the hall feeling baffled and trying to figure out what he might have done wrong to make Clint run like this. He takes a deep breath and straightens his back; creeping outside the bathroom door isn’t going to give him answers, so he gets his things from their room as well. Figuring Clint could use some space, he decides to wait in the living room and tries not to work himself into panic.

 

It takes less time than he would have expected before the bathroom door opens again. He waits a few moments until he can hear Clint puttering in their room before taking his turn in the bathroom. When he finishes and crosses to the bedroom, he finds Clint practically pacing in front of the dresser, folding and unfolding the same shirt to keep his hands busy. It’s tempting to call him out on it then and there, but something tells Phil that this time he needs to wait for Clint to decide when he’s ready to share what’s on his mind. In the past he might have doubted the technique, but in the last few weeks Clint’s proven real growth with his willingness to talk through what’s bothering him.

 

So instead of going to his husband like he wants to, Phil puts his things away and slides into bed. Once settled he watches Clint fidget some more until he suddenly stops, the stillness stark against his prior restlessness. Clint shakes his head and blows out a heavy breath before turning off the light and sliding in beside Phil.

 

Phil forces himself to be calm and relaxed. He doesn’t say anything, but he does reach out a hand to close the short distance between them, just leaving it pressed lightly against Clint’s side as an anchor. It’s worrying that he can practically feel Clint worrying at himself, but still he waits.

 

Some time later there’s the sound of the front door opening and closing. They listen to Laura and Cooper talking in hushed voices, and Max’s nails click against the floor when he comes to sniff around their door. Clint remains silent but Phil can feel him flinch when Laura opens the door next to theirs to check on her sleeping daughter. 

 

It’s not until much later, after Cooper retreats to the living room and Laura goes to bed. Not until Max makes his rounds, ending at their door and laying down with a huff. It’s not until the house is silent, and Phil’s making poorly conceived connections in his own head with the classic ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. When everything is still around them, Clint finally speaks.

 

“She called me dad. I don’t think I’ve told you that.”  It’s barely a whisper but Phil catches it in the silence. He doesn’t respond verbally, just moves the hand he has pressed to Clint’s side, rubbing his fingers along a bit of skin he’s found there.

“It was scary at first, but I also loved it, having her look up to me like that, you know?”

 

Clint sighs and rolls up onto his side. He puts his hand in Phil’s, loosely curling their fingers together. “Watching her with you, imagining what we could have had, and then remembering why that wasn’t an option. Not for me.”

 

“Because of SHIELD?” There’s a lot to cover in those couple muttered sentences. Phil’s not entirely sure what’s weighing most urgently on Clint’s mind just yet, but he has a suspicion and it makes him want to pay a visit to a long dead man.

 

“Because of ME.” Clint pulls his hand away abruptly as if he’s afraid to continue touching him. “Shit, Phil. You know… I’m just… Fuck. The only thing I know about raising kids involves drunken rages and bruises. SHIELD puts a nice face on it but I’m still a killer for hire. I shouldn’t even be allowed around kids.” 

 

With a growl of disgust Clint sits up and shifts back to lean against the headboard. He runs his hands roughly over his face before letting them fall heavily to his lap and dropping his head against the wooden board behind him. “God, no wonder you never wanted to have kids with me.”

 

Phil’s brain, already struggling to keep up, seems to grind to a halt. “What?”

 

Clint shrugs, “I figured it out years ago.”

 

“Wait, just…” Phil sighs and moves to sit next to Clint, mirroring his position.

 

“It’s clear I’ve made some mistakes if you believe that to be true.” Phil says, and pushes on even when Clint starts making sounds of disagreement. “I would be beyond proud to have kids with you. I can’t imagine anyone who’d be better – you’re amazing and smart and kind and attentive. You’re everything and nothing that your father tried to make you.”

 

Clint’s got his hands pressed to his face again, but Phil doesn’t let him hide. He takes the hand closest to his before continuing. “I’ve seen you, over the summer and now, with Lila and Cooper and I’ve got to tell you, you can panic and freak out but it’s a little late for second guessing now. You’re already like a dad to those kids.”

 

“Clint,” he gives a tug on the hand in his own until Clint looks at him. “You aren’t your father. Or Barney or Trickshot or the Swordsman. You’ve worked hard to escape from them, and you get to enjoy this. You deserve this.”

 

He holds Clint’s eyes in the dark room. Eventually Clint gives a brief nod then looks away. “Ok.” He nods again, more firmly this time and blows out a breath. “Yeah, ok. Sorry.”

 

“Clearly I’m the one who should be apologizing. I let it go because of me – because I wasn’t ready to prioritize a family over SHIELD. I’m sorry that you had to doubt yourself because of me.”

 

“SHIELD takes a lot from both of us.” He nudges Phil into lying down again before spooning his back against Phil’s front, pulling Phil’s arm over his side. “I want to make this work, Phil.”

 

“We can. It’ll take some shuffling….” Phil tightens the arm around Clint as a barrier against the heartache still echoing in his chest. “We’ll make it work.”

 

***

 

They wake well before the alarm to the excited chatter of Lila drifting down the hallway. Phil’s surprised that, despite the early hour, Clint doesn’t even protest. He hops up and pulls on a sweater, already out the door before Phil gets out of bed. He smiles when he hears Clint declare loudly, “Santa came!,” to the affirmative shouts of Lila and Cooper.

 

It’s a bit of a happy face covering the emotional turmoil Clint had let him glimpse last night, but no one else can tell. If Phil’s honest he’s still smarting a little himself; he’d never even suspected how deeply he’d hurt Clint, how he’d reinforced decades-old fears. But it’s Christmas morning, so he only allows himself another minute to beat himself up before he follows Clint’s example and gets out of bed with a smile on his face.

 

Phil feels like a kid again. He can almost imagine those Christmas mornings before his dad died as he finds himself welcomed into this family morning. There’s hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls, the gleeful excitement as they alternate gift opening, a growing collection of bows and ribbons Clint’s adorning himself with. Cooper finds out Phil used to play baseball and spends most of the late morning at Phil’s elbow talking about his little league team.

 

All the stress and hurt, the confusion and uncertainty of the last year and a half seems to melt away throughout the morning. There’s laughter and fun and happiness shared between them, and no room for the hurt that’s been haunting them all.

 

By the time everyone’s sitting down to Christmas lunch Phil’s been accepted by this family completely, something he’d not expected at the start of the trip. It’s easy to see why Clint was so taken by these amazing people, and he’s thankful again that they found him when Phil couldn’t.

 

In the end it passes too quickly. After lunch, Laura insisted they take a break to pack their bags for their flight in the morning while Laura and the kids cleaned. They’d spent the remaining hours of sun playing in the backyard, Clint running around with Lila on his shoulders while Phil taught Cooper how to throw a curveball. He’d barely even felt the cold, warmed through by Coopers proud smile and the matching grins of Clint, Lila, and Laura.

 

That evening they’d gathered around the table to play board games, playing well past bedtime until Lila began nodding off in her seat. While the rest of them picked up the playing pieces, Clint gathered Lila into his arms and carried her from the room, whispering in her ear. This time Phil hadn’t even blushed when he met Laura’s eyes across the table, caught in his staring.

 

That night, Clint came to bed without ghosts in his eyes.

 

***

 

It’s cold. Phil’s tempted to double check his nose and ears are where he last left them, but he really doesn’t want to take his hands out from where they’re tucked under his arms. He’s just finished checking that the car’s packed and joins Clint on the porch where everyone is saying good bye. He’s surprised by Cooper wrapping his arms around his waist in a hug, but he returns it just as tightly. Then Lila’s reaching out for him from Clint’s arms and he pulls her to him. Her small arms wrap around his neck and she kisses his cheek. This time he’s too startled to do anything, and he kind of freezes until she squirms to be let down.

 

It’s terrifying how one little girl can completely undo him.

 

“Ok, guys, come on. We have to let them get going.” Laura says, reluctantly pulling the kids back towards her.

 

“But when are you coming back?” Lila asks, drawing out the last word into a whine.

 

Clint squats down in front of her, pressing his knuckles gently against her cheek. “Hey there, don’t worry. We’ll be back as soon as we can. But you can call me anytime mom says it’s ok, alright?”

 

She looks uncertain but nods, and Clint gives her a kiss on the forehead before he stands. “That’s my girl.”

 

“Well you’re welcome anytime, of course. We’d love to have you.” Laura says, wrapping her arms around Lila and Cooper. “And I know you can’t always get away but, unless you’re off saving the world, we’ll be expecting you the middle of June. Both of you.”

 

Phil smiles and Clint just looks confused, but before he can ask Lila and Cooper are yelling their protests, “That’s forever away!” Laura laughs and pulls the kids to her, reassuring them time will pass before they know it.

 

Phil takes Clint by the arm and pulls him away, waving back as they go.

 

Phil drives this time and Clint gives him until they’re on the main road before he asks.

 

“What’s in June?”

 

Phil’s not surprised that Clint doesn’t understand what Laura had meant, not with the way he grew up. He smiles and a gentle laugh bubbles out from him in his happiness for Clint.

 

“Phil?”

 

Taking his hand off the gear shifter he reaches out for Clint’s. “That’s her way of saying they want you here for Father’s Day.”

 

 “Fathe—“

 

Phil nods.

 

“Me?”

 

Phil laughs and nods again.

 

“Oh.”

 

END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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